Ashes
by BlueMoonOnTheRise
Summary: Murder and drugs often walk hand in hand, and Sherlock's had his fair share of experiences related to both. But what happens when old addictions come crawling back, the unbreakable starts to crack, and John's caught up in his mess? What happens then?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! This is my next big, actually-with-a-plot, no-romance story. Friendship only :D**

**Warnings: DARK (T for a reason, be warned); immediate drug references.**

**Finally, reviews are always welcome. Enjoy...**

_Ashes._

"_Our main headline tonight: children from a school in North London are reported to have been being supplied with the illegal drug, heroin. Worried parents have contacted the police, but as yet, the suppliers have not been identified. Five children have been hospitalised to date, and there are concerns that the perpetrators of the trade may expand their dealings across other schools in the city. Our education correspondent, David Hargreaves, is there for us now – David."_

John exhales, tuning out the Welsh accent of the newsreader to look at his flatmate, concerned. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over his experiment. He's holding a flask of something purple in one hand, and frowning over his microscope, but John can tell from the slight tilt of his head that he's half listening to the television. He doesn't look up at John's gaze, as he often does. He's absorbed in his work, tipping the flask infinitesimally, so a tiny drop of purple splashes onto a Petri dish. The contents of the dish bubbles violently, and when the bubbling stops, one side of Sherlock's mouth twitches upwards, and he slides the dish under the lens of the microscope, surveying it for several minutes.

Sighing, John leaves him to it, returning his own attention to the news. A police officer he vaguely recognises is being questioned rather mercilessly by the reporter.

"_What would you say to those who are criticising the police for not treating this matter with more urgency?"_

"_Well that's completely untrue. I can assure you that this is being treated as a matter of huge importance: the safety of our young people is one of the priorities of the police…"_

John tunes out from the forced politeness of the police officer, leaning back in his chair and yawning. He hears Sherlock give a small snicker, and looks up.

"I don't know why they bother coming up with all this," Sherlock says, waving a hand dismissively at the screen.

"Well I'm sure they're doing their best," John counters, watching the detective. For all the man's criticism of the police, and even his superiority in solving crimes; John did not believe the police were incompetent or even not well-meaning.

At his words, Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, looking down at John with scepticism, and pursing his lips. He doesn't say anything, however, focussing his attention on the screen. It's now showing a worried mother, the mother of one of the hospitalised children. She's quite pale, and her voice is shaking.

"I realise she's worried about the wellbeing of her son, but she's clearly exaggerating it for the camera. Still, she never did get much attention, second eldest of four siblings…"

John ignores him, grimacing, and shaking his head at the screen.

"My God," he murmurs. "I can't believe this…the youngest was only eight."

"He's still alive, John," Sherlock tells him, frowning at the use of the past tense.

"Don't tell me it doesn't bother you even a little bit."

"It's unpleasant," Sherlock concedes, shrugging. He seems to lose interest, returning to the kitchen and peering at his experiment.

The news switches to a story on the economy, and John gets up, following his flatmate into the kitchen, and leaning against the counter as Sherlock works. He can feel the irritation radiating off the detective as he does so. His jaw has tightened, and he sits very still. John grins.

"Yes?"

The word, forced out from between gritted teeth, makes John chuckle, and the expression on the detective's face darkens further. He lets out a long-suffering sigh, and turns to face John, who's still trying not to smile at his friend's apparently black mood.

"You do realise that just because I used to take drugs, it doesn't mean I am instantly fascinated by stories that relate to them?"

John opens his mouth to object.

"I- "

"And yes, it was usually heroin. Are you satisfied now?"

John sighs at Sherlock's irritable disposition, and leaves him to his experiment, returning to his chair in the lounge. He's been getting progressively more volatile over the past week: the 'interesting' cases seem to have dried up, and he's been, to quote him 'cooped' inside Baker Street for most of that time, not counting a few visits to the morgue to torment Molly and steal body parts. In all honesty, John was beginning to wish for a murder (not something he tended to wish for, but a man could change) for the simple reason that it would give the consulting detective something to do. Deprived of decent thinking material he became increasingly irritable and insulting, played the violin with increasing frequency and ferocity, and seemed to lose all social skills that he had previously possessed in very small quantities anyway. It was akin to living with a crate of high explosives next to the fireplace: that was, high explosives that played the violin at two in the morning.

Actually, Sherlock had been deprived of work for so long that 'playing' was really stretching the truth.

Nonetheless, John is quite pleased to have gleaned the small fact about the man. They've never talked about Sherlock's past, not ever: so absorbed as they are in the excitement of the present. It's not much, but John can't help but feel grateful for this small piece of information about his flatmate, even though all it is; is the man's previous drug preferences.

He supposes it puts him in some perspective, makes him more human. Sometimes, John needs reminding that Sherlock is not, in fact, a hero: he's just a man, someone who walked into his life at exactly the right moment, but still nothing more than a human being. Flawed, just like everyone else.

Absorbed in his thoughts, John has not been paying attention to the news, and notices with little interest that it's got to the weather forecast. He flips the TV off, leaning back, and closing his eyes, but not before sparing Sherlock a glance. The detective is no longer focussed on his experiment. His elbows are rested on the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin, a serene expression on his face that was tainted by the last vestiges of antagonism. John smiles.

Something suitably horrendous would come along soon, he was sure, and Sherlock would return to his usual manic self. He wonders if he should be worried that such a thought sounded promising.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is a long'un. Reviews, as always, very much appreciated.**

**Warnings: Graphic injury. Also, if anyone ever feels the rating should go up, then let me know. I think it's certainly going to teeter on the edge; if not in this chapter, in later ones. **

**For now, enjoy (:**

Sherlock's phone is buzzing. It continues buzzing, so much so that it shimmies across the table, tracing a circular path over the wood. Its owner is ignoring it. He's lying on the sofa, bare feet crossed, eyes shut. He might have been asleep, except for the set of his lips; twisted into a frown. They contradict the rest of his face, which is as smooth and expressionless as a sheet of glass, but his lips twitch occasionally, the frown rearranging itself to adjust to its owner's level of frustration.

Aforementioned owner of the odd expression and phone ignores the buzzing for a good minute. Asked later, he would claim he was in something akin to a boredom induced coma, but that was not the case – and to be fair, the questioner would accept the answer, knowing it not to be, and indulge in a secret smile.

No, the reason that Sherlock did not leap off the couch in unbridled joy was because he was certain precisely _who _was calling him, and he was in no mood to listen to obnoxious retellings of election rigging. Or something.

However, the phone keeps buzzing with unwonted persistency, until sheer annoyance at the sound rouses the detective from his stupor, and he sits up with a huff. It must have been a particularly significant ruining of another nation's democracy, for Mycroft to be so bent on getting his attention.

Still, Sherlock takes his time reaching for his phone, languidly stretching his arm towards it, and snatching it up with little enthusiasm. He brings the screen up level with his eyes, and the name that's flashing at him causes his heart to leap in his chest. His boredom turns to intrigue in a second, morphing into excitement in the next.

He doesn't even have time to be irritated that he was wrong.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

He keeps his voice calm and vaguely uninterested as he answers, although he swings his legs off the couch simultaneously, preparing to leave. He'll take anything Lestrade will give him. Anything.

The longer the Detective Inspector speaks, the bigger Sherlock's smile becomes, fledging into a full on grin by the time he hangs up. He fires off a quick text to John, something easier said than done when one is trying to pull socks on in a rather ungainly fashion, informing him of where he'd gone. Then, Sherlock leaves without a backward glance, coat slung over one arm.

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"Right," Lestrade says, leading Sherlock into the morgue and grimacing a little. "This isn't pretty."

Sherlock's eyes dart towards Lestrade's face, intrigued by the tone of voice. The man has a slightly pasty complexion, grimace and balled hands – yet he was an experienced Detective Inspector. The murder must have been particularly gruesome for him to be so affected. Sherlock, of course, will have none of the same reactions, but being forewarned of a particularly messy murder is always good. The last time Lestrade had looked like that, it had involved disembowelment and decapitation. That case had been _fascinating_. It's too much to hope that this one will be anywhere near the same level, but the initial signs are promising.

He's led across the room, over to one of the usual body bags: black and zipped over the victim so that they are not on display. Judging by the shape visible through the material Sherlock is immediately able to determine that the victim is very young – statistically, it's more likely to be a child than someone who has dwarfism. He doesn't entirely discount the latter at this point as both are possibilities with proportions so hard to judge through the bag. However, he had previously observed that people tended to be more affected by the death of children, so judging by the pallor of the Detective Inspector, Sherlock was inclined to believe the victim was a child.

'Not pretty' – it was that turn of phrase that particularly interested him, especially if this was a child. With child murders, people were generally inclined to use words like 'horrific' 'unthinkable' and 'evil' – and he supposed with good reason. He wasn't a fan of the killing of children. Murders – God, yes – murders of children, he was less comfortable with. Perhaps it was one of the remaining notions society had managed to root in him, but he thought it was more than that. Children, he was of the opinion, were the only people in society that really were of much worth. Unlike adults, they had their own minds, they had the desire to learn, they were inquisitive: in short, they were not bound by society's rules. As they grew, such guidelines became more important, they became the same as everyone else: mindless apes, hiding themselves behind the façade of 'civilisation', too afraid to step outside the stereotypes, or do anything meaningful.

On the plus side, they then became ideal murder victims.

Anyway – 'not pretty' indicated a particularly messy or careless murder, not just one that was horrific in intention.

Sherlock makes his way over to the table and contemplates the bag. He pushes all qualms regarding the death of the young away. This child was already dead; his fretting would not help in the slightest. He feels his carefully constructed walls crush his remaining vestiges of what John might call 'human feeling' into the very back of his mind, and smiles. With the prospect of stretching his brain now untarnished by concern, the only feelings he's left with are anticipation and excitement. Brilliant.

Nonetheless, he makes sure to unzip the bag with a fraction more caution than he might usually employ, especially when he's been deprived of work for so extended a period. Simply a necessary measure to pacify Lestrade's conscience, nothing more.

With the girl exposed, Sherlock deems the DI's analysis of 'not pretty' an understatement. So much so, that the statement verges on the cusp of being a downright lie.

Sherlock Holmes is never affected by a murder, but as the little girl's body is revealed to him, he feels a jolt of revulsion that sends him reeling: his mind unable to comprehend the pure evil that culminated in such a killing. He feels sick, almost, desperately reaching for the barriers in his mind, which this one dead child seemed to have broken through.

He sniffs, swallows, and manages to restore his usual distance in dealing with such situations.

Cool logic back in place; he can remember that it's just a body, and he bends over it eagerly. She's very badly burnt – limbs and organs blurred together on the table in a black mulch – all except for her face, which is left almost intact; the skin only faintly charred around the chin. Miraculously, she seems to have retained most of her hair too: it's almost black, little curly wisps falling into her eyes. The eyes themselves are shut – no doubt done by whoever found her out of respect – but Sherlock peels back one eyelid to take a look (they're incredibly pale grey) before returning them to their original position. His preliminary examination complete, he turns to Lestrade, needing more data before he can draw more concrete conclusions.

"Okay," he says, unable to stop a smile tugging at the corners of his lips at the prospect of some proper thinking at last. He notices the slight look of disgust on Lestrade's face at this enthusiasm, but ignores it. "What do we know? I'd say she was about 9."

"Yeah, she is," Lestrade confirms, nodding. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the use of the present tense, but keeps them otherwise trained on the man in front of him. The inspector seems unable to help himself glancing over at the table and the sight clearly distresses him, because he looks away swiftly and swallows hard. "I don't know if you saw on the news: she's from that school that's having all the trouble with the drugs. Like they need more attention, poor bastards."

Sherlock inwardly curses the murderer, already anticipating the ill-concealed gloating he would have to endure from his flatmate later. He doesn't answer Lestrade, merely cataloguing the information for future reference.

"Only child of parents Pauline and Terry Mitchell – called Laura."

Sherlock nods absently, frowning.

"The odd thing about the whole picture, Sherlock, is that her killer is in jail."

"What?"

"He's in jail. Was convicted eight months ago of multiple murder offences and drug trafficking; been there ever since."

Sherlock's frown deepens; he raises one hand to run through his hair, and looks at Lestrade.

"That's not right."

"It's what all the evidence; all the forensic tests point to." Lestrade clears his throat, and shakes his head in disbelief. "I mean, the team's got a few more tests to run, but they're not going to find anything new."

Sherlock's eyes narrow, surveying the Detective Inspector. While he's often complained loudly about the incompetence of the police force, it seemed unlikely to him that they'd get something so wrong, especially when they had drawn a conclusion that no one would have been looking for. He gives a little tut of irritation: his brain formulating and instantly discarding several ideas. Lestrade looks stumped, and Sherlock understands why he'd been called in. When the police were out of their depth…

"Obviously a set up." Sherlock tells him dismissively, looking down at his gloved hands in disdain, and flicking a speck of dust off one. He had rather hoped that a statement of the obvious out loud would bring a flood of new ideas, but when it doesn't he contents himself with heaving a sigh of despair at these people's observational skills. When he looks up, he notices the other man is wearing an expression of annoyance. Well they had realised. Why not say so initially? Why not just tell him that it had been engineered to _look_ as if Jenkins was the murderer, not pretend they thought it was? He had asked for data.

"Yes, I know that," the DI tells him, heaving a sigh of his own. "But I've got nothing to go on. No CCTV, no forensic evidence – nothing except the fact that Dennis Jenkins has not left his cell for eight months."

"Where did the murder take place?" Sherlock asks, giving the body one last glance, and re-zipping the bag with a flourish. He feels his eagerness bubbling up inside of him, resulting in another smile that flickers across his pale eyes.

"Well, in a park quite near to the school," Lestrade tells him, sending a reproving frown at the smile.

"Show me."

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The park is relatively large: a stretching expanse of green with a small lake towards the edge. It's surrounded by wrought iron railings, and currently swathes of police tape also. There are paths all the way around the edges, so it strikes Sherlock initially as an ill-advised murder spot: surely passers-by could see everything? Also, even from the centre of the park, Sherlock can see at least five CCTV cameras mounted on buildings and pointed at the surrounding streets: he'd be prepared to wager there were more.

However, after the first glance, he notices there are several clumps of trees. There's a particularly large scattering of them bordering the lake. He makes two circuits of the park from the surrounding pavements, and discovers that there is in fact a small section of the wooded area that should be completely invisible to pedestrians. It wouldn't hurt that people never bothered to properly observe their surroundings either.

Lestrade, who had been observing his actions with a slightly wistful smile, confirms that Sherlock's identified area was indeed the spot for the murder, and Sherlock lets a grin spread across his face.

"Good. There's probably a blind spot in the CCTV surveillance here: some corridor where you can cross the street into the park without detection. You need to look for anyone acting suspiciously in the surrounding area that suddenly disappears from the CCTV footage. It'll be time consuming, but I need the suspects narrowed down."

Sherlock spins around, his eyes darting around the park. It occurs to him that blind spots in CCTV coverage was something that Mycroft would probably know, but he is unwilling to endure his brother's gloating for so simple a request, and dismisses the idea of asking him. It's hardly a large area, and it shouldn't be too time consuming to discover the corridor himself. His eyes scan the walls of the surrounding buildings: calculating the range of each camera. They seem to all overlap at present. However, if the killer was willing to wait for them to turn, creating a gap in their coverage…it would be impractical. So, the killer must _know_ when the cameras turned to create blind spots; he must have some source of information.

Sherlock becomes aware that Lestrade is looking at him, and he pauses briefly in his thoughts to explain them to the man.

"The killer is clearly experienced. He has a source of information that tells him when the cameras turn away, creating a corridor with no surveillance. I think the only possible place that could happen is along that street there: only about twenty metres, but it would enable him to get into the park. There's no surveillance on the park itself, it seems too open to merit it, but that's where the planners were wrong, and our killer noticed that. I imagine the killer told Laura to meet him here – it's not unreasonable, for a child to ask their parents if they can go to the park." Sherlock shakes his head, and shares a glance with the DI. "Also, the effort made to plant the false evidence means this person is incredibly dangerous, because they're invisible. This is not a first time murder – see if any of the people you find acting oddly on the footage match previous suspects.."

Lestrade nods numbly. It's unlike him to be quite so submissive, and Sherlock guesses he's just determined to catch this murderer, after such a disturbing killing.

Although the prospect of catching the perpetrator of this crime looked far off at the moment, Sherlock feels positive. He's managed to deduce a reasonable amount of information about the killer. What nags at his mind however, is the meticulously preserved face of the little girl, and the link to the drug-plagued school. They don't quite fit in: if the killer was so determined to erase all evidence of his presence, then why leave his victim recognisable? Why not just burn her beyond recognition, scatter her ashes, and leave the police to list her as another missing person that they never found, another assumed – but impossible to prove – murder? Also, Sherlock was interested to know if that particular girl had been involved in the drugs scandal.

"I want to speak to her parents," Sherlock announces, his eyes not on Lestrade, scanning instead the busy street beyond the grass, even this moment his eyes searching for anyone who looked slightly out of place amongst the shoppers and commuters.

He spots one man almost immediately. He's stopped in the middle of the crowded pavement, and is squinting towards the park. Sherlock's heart pounds in his chest, marvelling at his own luck. The man seems to make a decision and crosses the road, heading towards the grass. Sherlock frowns. That wasn't right. It's only when the man reaches the pavement adjacent with the park, that Sherlock recognises him. Of course. Obvious.

John Watson lets himself into the park; awkwardly clambering under the police tape, and making a beeline for Sherlock and Lestrade. When he arrives, flashing small smiles of greeting at himself and Lestrade, Sherlock doesn't bother asking him how he knew where to find them. Instead, he watches him catch his breath, noticing the familiar smile that doesn't fade as John exhales and looks around.

Clearly, he went to the morgue, and Molly told him. He thought he'd spotted her hovering in the background.

"Good," he says instead, steering John back towards the iron railings entwined with tape. He notices the doctor give a grumble at his actions, but is satisfied that he allows himself to be pushed to the edge of the park. "We've got some questioning to do."

As they reach the railings, it's Lestrade that calls after them, his voice cautionary.

"Remember they've just lost a daughter, Sherlock," he tells him severely, his frown discernable just from the tone of his voice. Sherlock rolls his eyes, following John out of the park.

"I can assure you that my conduct will be appropriate," he tells the Detective Inspector with a wry smile. "Have all the details of this sent to Baker Street," he adds with a wave; before plunging into the crowded London street after John, until Lestrade's indignant protests become inaudible.


	3. Chapter 3

**No warnings to speak of this time, you may (or may not) be pleased to hear. **

**Reviews always very welcome. **

**Also, because I haven't said yet, I don't own Sherlock. I do on the other hand own my plot, except the links to the actual series :P**

On the cab ride back from the interview with the Mitchells, Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet. It's too much for John to hope that the murder and its implications have actually affected him, but he does feel there's ground to hope that it means he's thinking – and likely productively.

John sneaks a sideways glance at his flatmate. Sherlock's eyes are staring, unfocussed through the dark window. He appears entirely immersed in the inner workings of his mind.

"Yes, John?"

His expression stays precisely the same, and were it not for the slight movement in his lips, John would have wondered if he imagined the sound. As it is, the response is still a surprise.

"How..?" he asks incredulously, unable to stop himself. He shakes his head, sighs, and turns his attention to the window opposite Sherlock's.

"Reflection," comes the immediate answer; Sherlock's usual bored drawl. "I assume you wanted something."

John's head snaps back round. He looks at Sherlock, eyebrows raised involuntarily in surprise at the detective's seeming cooperation. When he was quiet, he rarely answered questions, let alone listened to somebody else. A smile curves John's lips at this thought; although the expression itself is encouraging as well as pleased.

"Got anything?"

He hears Sherlock make an indistinct noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a scoff and an exasperated sigh. The detective still seems willing to answer, however, because he drags his attention from the orange and pale gold streaks flying past the dark glass, fixing his gaze instead on his flatmate.

"Not much."

John is surprised by the seeming lack of irony in such a response. Sherlock's lips are set in a frown that John now recognises he's been wearing all afternoon, his brows are furrowed, and the statement seemed more genuine than the usual more arrogant response that the particular phrase generally entails. John raises his eyebrows at the unusual tone. It's only now, with his flatmate's face illuminated only by shop windows and streetlights, that John realises. Sherlock looks worried: the expression thrown into sharp relief by the black shadows that flicker across his face. The realisation unnerves the doctor, who tries not to let it show on his face.

"Really?" he asks him, smiling. "That's not like you."

It's a hint for Sherlock to elaborate, one which the detective deliberately ignores.

"Care to tell me what you _have_ got?" he prompts, going for a more direct assault. Sherlock sits in silence, leaving John to grind his teeth, and wait for the man to decide the time was appropriate to speak. Perhaps he had been wrong in thinking Sherlock was being cooperative.

He does speak eventually – genius needing an audience and all that – first pressing his fingertips into a pyramid beneath his chin. John will never understand his fascination with that pose, but he doesn't comment; just watches the man eagerly. His face is still twisted in what appears to be worry, and such an obvious display of emotion from Sherlock Holmes of all people puts John on edge.

He wants to rip the expression off the man's features, smack him round the head and tell him to stop being stupid. He can't quite explain why, so just sits and waits, watching Sherlock intently.

"This was meant to hurt these people, John," the man beside him says slowly, his eyes sliding sideways to meet his flatmate's. His voice is quiet, perhaps not to pique the interest of the cabbie, but the doctor is positive he hears a worried rasp that he's never heard before. He says nothing, just continues to listen. "The killer left her face intact. The part you recognise a person by. He wanted her recognised. He wanted to hurt them."

"He?" John asked, interested.

"Habit," Sherlock tells him, waving one hand dismissively. "I don't like this, John."

"You're kidding."

The comment comes out unbidden, almost,designed to be offhand - but he's met with a glare of such intensity and ferocity that he recoils into the leather of the seat. The light from the streetlights outside flickers in the detective's eyes as he glares: it's like the irises are literally burning with anger.

Reclining into the seat of that cab, watching his city blur past as he and Sherlock sit in stony silence; John Watson begins to get a very bad feeling about this particular case, and shivers. A shard of dread burrows into his heart, making him far colder than the wind outside could. That anger was the second explicit emotion in so many minutes from his self-proclaimed sociopath of a flatmate. Something had changed, and John didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to realise that things boded ill.

"Are you enjoying this?" The detective asks into the silence. His voice is low and as aggressive as his glare.

"No," John replies quite honestly, trying to avoid eye contact.

"Then don't assume I am," the detective snaps. He pulls his phone from his coat pocket and begins texting, stabbing the keys unecessarily hard.

John just sighs in defeat, and returns his attention to the window, feeling guilty. He hadn't meant to suggest Sherlock in any way wanted children dead.

But then again, he reflects angrily, Sherlock usually didn't care.

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It's been two months since Lestrade called the first murder to their attention, and Sherlock and John are inside 221B Baker Street. Sherlock's sitting upright on the sofa, his eyes fixed on the wall, unblinking. John stands next to him. He's less eager to look at the wall but does so anyway, surveying it with a clenched jaw as a show of solidarity.

The wall itself is plastered with pictures and notes. There are photos of all the victims from the morgue, notes, locations, grainy CCTV footage, newspaper cuttings, and hastily scrawled extracts from news reports. There are photos of the families, family history, diary extracts even. Everything is connected with arrows and notes scrawled along them; string if it was to hand when Sherlock had a thought.

There's also an angry black biro scribble to the left of the main collage, something Mrs Hudson had already picked up on, and had not been pleased with.

Sherlock had blamed it on John.

The detective lets out his breath slowly, the air hissing between his teeth. His eyes shut momentarily, away from the wall, his fingers lift from his lap to press together. John watches him.

"Tell me what we've got again," the detective murmurs, barely audible, but John picks up on the request.

"All five from the same school. Seemingly no links, other than they'd all been taking drugs. Oh wait – all only children. All burnt." John stops, long enough for his flatmate to open his eyes and look up at him in curiosity and faint annoyance. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but this looks like Moriarty."

"Why?"

His voice is sharp and accusatory.

"Who else would do this?"

"Oh, now I see it," Sherlock says, his voice icy and sarcastic. "How did I miss something so obvious?"

"Well you think it's him too!" John protests, sighing. His voice is tired, and he shuts his own eyes for a second, and finds the pictures of the dead children are ingrained on the insides of his eyelids. When he opens them, Sherlock's expression is curious, and tinged with concern. John takes a breath."We've got to stop this; please don't try and protect him."

He's a little afraid to meet the other man's gaze after that sentence, but he does so anyway, with defiance. The detective's expression is unreadable, but it's not hostile. He brings his legs up onto the couch and stares into space, apparently thoughtful. Sighing, John sits down next to him, resting one arm along the back of the seat.

"Sorry," he says.

"No," Sherlock replies, waving away the apology, and shaking his head. "But Moriarty's…he's so clever. I don't know if he'd make it this obvious."

"Remind what about this case is in any way 'obvious'"

"The dead children, the link to drug addiction, the killer who's in jail. It's so meticulous, seems engineered specifically for me – would he be that obvious?"

John stares at Sherlock, wondering briefly if the man had lost his mind.

"You're saying that it looks so much like something Moriarty would do…that it's not."

"To put it crudely."

Sherlock crosses his legs, glancing sideways at John and rolling his eyes.

"What?"

"You're insane!" John bursts out, utterly unable to stop himself, and disinclined to do so anyway. "This is you! You told me that my sister was an alcoholic by my phone, and you won't trust your instincts and just accept that this is Moriarty?"

He shakes his head in disbelief. An incredulous laugh escapes his lips, despite the lack of humour of the situation. At his words, the detective's eyebrows dart upwards briefly, his expression becomes sceptical. He doesn't answer this time, merely shoots a glare in his flatmate's direction, and turns away. John, however, is unprepared to let the matter drop.

"This has got to be him."

There's no reply, and John takes the opportunity to continue without the usual condescending interjection.

"It's obvious. The drugs, the kids, the burning…he said he was going to _burn your heart out_." The revelation draws no reaction from the younger man, who seems oblivious to John's outburst. He stays sitting perfectly still: almost statuesque – porcelain skin, and dark hair dipping into his eyes. John grinds his teeth. "Sherlock! Listen to me."

The statue moves, his head jerking in John's direction almost as if he were trying to flick off a particularly irritating fly, then he freezes again. Losing patience, John elbows him in the ribs.

"Shut up. I'm thinking."

The shorter man takes absolutely no notice, getting up and beginning to pace in agitation, back and forth, past the sofa.

"Do you remember what happened last time you didn't think things through with Moriarty?" John asks, his voice rising. "We got blown up in a bloody swimming pool, and we're lucky to be alive. So, if you think I'm going to sit here and let you pretend that it isn't him – "

John's not really sure what he intends to add onto the end of that sentence, but it turns out not to matter: because Sherlock gets up and strides away from him, stopping in the doorframe to his bedroom, where he turns to John, eyes blazing.

"I told you that your _brother_ was an alcoholic from your mobile phone," he corrects. "My logic is not infallible, John, it's flawed. And an instinct isn't even logic, it's just a feeling: it's very imprecise. I will not be blinded by a belief that Moriarty is behind every murder, hiding around every corner, because he's not. If I decide it's him with no evidence, then I blind myself to other options, we might overlook the real culprit. I won't do it."

"Will you just bloody trust yourself?" John asks, his voice rising further to match Sherlock's. "Hell, I do; but I'm beginning to question why right now! You're blinding yourself to anything ever _being_ Moriarty, just in case it's not."

Sherlock seems to contemplate him for a few seconds. Perhaps he's taken the point on board, because there's no angry retaliation. He's wearing an odd expression, and for a moment John thinks he's going to say something: but then he turns on his heel, slamming his bedroom door so hard behind him that a couple of drawing pins tumble from the wall.

Sighing, John goes to re-secure them, muttering curses under his breath, and continually glancing at the door behind which Sherlock had just vanished. He watches the blank wood for several minutes, but it becomes apparent that Sherlock is not going to reappear through it. Sighing, John draws a hand across his forehead, and picks his way towards the kitchen.

Steaming mug of tea in hand, he feels far less agitated, and even prepared to take yet another look at Sherlock's haphazard wall-chart. He negotiates the mess on the floor easily, coming to rest in front of the chart. He disregards the various map references and CCTV photos (Scotland Yard were handling that, although still to no avail: nobody seeming to have any link to the crime. Even with Sherlock's theory of the use of decoys, the lack of information is unnerving) of the actual murder locations, focussing instead on the photos of the deceased children.

The pictures are genuinely horrific – he's warned Mrs Hudson not to take too close a look at the new décor, though he suspects she's caught a glance – and John can see at a glance why Lestrade called Sherlock in immediately. What he hates most, he supposes, is not the charred remains, but the faces left intact. It reminds him that the burned flesh, the blackened remains – they were once people. Children, to make it worse. He hates the innocent blue eyes gazing up at him, the pain twisted into the marble foreheads, the frowns so out of place on such young faces. There's one particular little girl that John finds very hard to look at; the very first victim. He feels guilty about it – the death of any child a tragedy, he shouldn't single out one more sad than the other – but it's a gut reaction, he doesn't seem able to help himself. The girl is about nine, though slightly thinner than usual for that age group, with curly black hair and eyes the exact shade of Sherlock's. She's even got the same high cheekbones as the detective. John wonders if Moriarty scoured London for that child that looked so much like the consulting detective. Was it a warning? He feels slightly sick at the thought, and sips his tea hastily, trying to push it away.

The tear streaked faces of Laura's parents flash into his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut, as if he could tear the image from his brain just by pressing his eyelids together. A fierce bubble of hate towards Moriarty courses through him like poison. If the man were to walk into 221B right now, John would have shot him stone dead without a second thought. It was more than he deserved, anyway.

He realises, suddenly, that he's shaking with anger and tries to draw his train of thought away from Moriarty.

It might have taken the death of (was it six children, now?) to achieve it, but he, Sherlock and the metropolitan police had managed to discover a few more details. Every single one of the children was an only child. It adds weight to Sherlock's argument that this venture is designed to hurt people, but frustratingly that's all it's added. They are at least all in agreement that after six virtually identical deaths, this similarity is unlikely to be a coincidence.

Secondly, there is a definite link with the drugs problem. All of the children had been being supplied heroin, it was found in their bloodstream in the post-mortem. Therefore, they were presumably persuaded to their place of decease to collect the substances, although Sherlock has not been able to confirm this for definite. All had said they were going to meet friends.

Finally, all were killed in seemingly open spaces, like the first park, yet there is no footage of the murders. They've found the kids walking alone to their place of decease, but nothing more.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade have agreed that the dealers have some connection to the killer, and as such Lestrade has become hell bent on tracking them down. As usual, Sherlock had scoffed, claiming himself to be the only one capable of doing such a job. As yet, all he has done is make a wall chart and argue about Moriarty, while Lestrade has actually caught some people linked (albeit tenuously) with the dealers, and begun questioning them mercilessly.

It's Sherlock's apparent lack of motivation that scares John most. He can tell that the man is affected by the death of children more than adults, but he hasn't done very much, for him. He's had a great deal of talks with all the victims families, collected vast amounts of data and thought for days on end without moving or eating: but he hasn't done anything practical, and John's sure they've got enough to go on to do something.

That wasn't true, actually. He went to the supermarket about a week ago and returned with what had to be the store's entire supply of nicotine patches, and no milk.

In all honesty, John thinks, as he turns away from the wall chart and settles in the armchair, he's scared that Sherlock is trying to protect Moriarty. Even if it's not conscious, John still sees it as a real possibility: he does after all find the man fascinating. His work would definitely be less challenging were Moriarty not around, and John worries that the detective's stalling to try and hang on to the more interesting cases, the game.

He shrugs to himself, feeling guilty for his rather damning evaluation of the man. Maybe Sherlock was trying: maybe it was just his own desperation to do something about this.

He sighs, takes a gulp of tea, and leans into the cushioning of the armchair. He'll readily admit he's not enjoying this case as much as he usually does; often glad for Monday to come back around and to be called into work. There's less running and deducting and kidnapping; and more frustration and dead ends and a growing list of dead kids. He exhales out his nose, and prays that Sherlock comes to his senses.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ahh, sorry, I meant to post this yesterday! :D Hope it's still acceptable today :)**

**Warnings for drug references. Also, there's a possibility the rating MAY go up next chapter (wait and see how I feel when it's written) so bear in mind if that happens it may be filtered out. Just a heads up! :)**

John wakes up the next day with the same sense of impending dread and worry that weighed in his stomach the day before. The prospect of getting up has been getting increasingly unappealing the past few days, but he dresses nonetheless, and stumbles downstairs, not relishing the idea of having to spend the entire day with a grouchy detective.

However, upon entering the kitchen, he notices that Sherlock is actually properly dressed too: and not in the uniform of pyjamas that he seemed to have adopted recently. He's wearing both his coat and shoes, and judging by the packets on the table that were not present the day before, John guesses he's already been out. A faint spark of hope begins to glow…was Sherlock actually doing something?

His gloom diminished somewhat, John surveys the cupboards for something to eat, managing to procure some cereal and milk that was neither off, nor contained levels of acid unsafe to human beings.

"What's in the packets?" he asks, pouring muesli into a bowl. They were small, with zip-lock tops, and contained some kind of powder that John was not prepared to attempt to identify at this time on a Sunday morning. He stifles a yawn.

"Diacetylmorphine hydrochloride."

There's a very brief pause: in which John blinks sleepily, and Sherlock rests his hands behind his head; the action accompanied by a quirking of the lips that might have been a smirk.

"Heroin in crystal form, then," John translates, unable to prevent a smile at his flatmate's shock. The hands are removed from behind the younger man's head; and the smirk replaced with a far stonier expression. There's a second pause, filled with John's amusement and Sherlock's resentment.

"I am a doctor, Sherlock."

Sherlock's attempt to keep the scowl off his face fails abysmally.

"Probably got illegally," John shoots the man a reproving look, "judging by the fact that it's brown not white – means it's adulterated in some way."

He looks up from the bowl he'd been pouring bran flakes into, to sneak a glance at his flatmate. He can't help but feel a little smug that his knowledge in this instance well keeps up with the consulting detective's.

"You are on excellent form this morning," Sherlock tells him, looking impressed. "Not standard knowledge for a doctor, though."

"Yeah, well," John says, moving his eyes back to his cereal. "I did some research after Harry started drinking…drugs and alcohol aren't so separate. And there's been some drug problems in Afghan in the past: would be stupid to be completely ignorant."

"Agreed."

There's silence for a moment. John has millions of questions in that instant; but he's uncertain of how to breach his concerns. It's not a conundrum he's used to, being around Sherlock. Generally, bluntness will suffice just fine, but they've had one too many disagreements recently, and he doesn't want to start another.

The sooner this case was over, the better. He chews on his cereal by the counter, mulling his thoughts over.

"Why the hell is it here?" he asks finally, keeping his voice as friendly as possible, but hearing the slight hysteria he felt as his voice rose significantly at the end of the question, and cracked.

"Don't overreact, John."

The detective's calm disdain does not pacify the doctor.

"You'd better have a decent explanation." He persists, folding his arms, and swallowing his mouthful.

He watches Sherlock very carefully. The detective takes his time answering, first propping his feet up on an available chair, and shifting the packets around on the table. Although he was almost certainly doing it to be annoying, John wants to slap his hands away from them.

"I'm merely gaining the dealers' trust, so I can find out more about them: their motives, strategy."

"Right," John says stiffly. He's not entirely convinced. "Could you not do that another way?"

"No. This is the most effective. Of course, the police would never have thought of it. Armed policemen showing up in the middle of the night was never going to make them more open."

John sighs, turning back to his breakfast.

"Maybe they didn't want to spend police money on illegal drugs," he comments, only half joking.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and picks up a packet, examining it.

"Besides, I can use this for experimentation. I haven't had decent access to it for some time, and hard drugs are often closely linked with crime."

John joins him at the table, carefully setting his bowl down as far away from the heroin as was possible. He takes another mouthful, looking at his flatmate with suspicion, which draws a sigh from him.

"What kind of experimentation?"

"Not on myself."

John nods, chewing. There's still some doubt in his mind, and apparently it shows on his face too, because Sherlock rolls his eyes again, and stands up.

"Stop worrying. I'm going out. You can put it in the margarine tub if it bothers you so much."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

A week passes. The margarine tub is checked frequently by both inhabitants of 221B during that time – Sherlock periodically raiding the contents for his experiments, John peering into it suspiciously and replacing the lid with a frown when the stock appeared depleted. On many occasions, he had asked for the details of the detective's experiments, which Sherlock had then had to tediously relay. On some levels he appreciated John's concern; but the appreciation was tainted somewhat by annoyance at having to recount his experiments (wasting valuable working time) and indignation that John seemed to trust him so little. There had been a number of instances where John had actually threatened to inform Lestrade of the substances in the flat when Sherlock refused to tell him of his experiments. Hiding the drugs would be mind-numbingly tedious, and John unfortunately did not tend to make empty threats.

His flatmate's suspicion was certainly a hindrance; and were John Mycroft, Sherlock would have paid him no heed at all, and his attitude would have in fact hastened the speed at which he returned to the dealers. However, this was John, and the respect he had for the man had in fact waylaid his return. But a week had passed, Sherlock was restless, and the trust of these people was vital to solving the problem. John was not stupid; he would grit his teeth and try to understand.

Sherlock sighs, his eyes drifting to the school gates just a few feet away from him. The building certainly strikes an ominous picture in this weather: water droplets pouring off the peeling paint of the railings, the building dark and looming behind the bars. One window seems to have been left open by a careless cleaner, the metal banging intermittently in the wind.

The detective's shoes splash slightly in the grime accumulated on the pavement, his coat swirls around his calves in the wind. Being a weekend, the playground is completely deserted, but in the week it would be crawling with police, trying to prevent the students from inadvertently being sucked into the drug scene, and ultimately signing their own death certificates. The painted markings on the concrete leer garishly through the gates and the rain: the yellows and reds too cheerful for a place where such sombre happenings had root.

The murders keep coming, steadily, and people are getting nervous. The number of students at this school is dropping frighteningly – a small proportion murdered, a much larger proportion being pulled out by their parents, and being moved to schools across the city. Sherlock inhales, his mind wandering. Why just this school?

He looks around him, pulling on the lapels of his coat to draw the garment closer around him, breathing in the cool air. The spot seems entirely deserted, and he turns from the school, faces the houses opposite instead, and meanders across the sodden road towards a little alley. On the surface, there's nothing suspicious about it – just concrete with grass forcing through at the edges, and dripping pine fences encasing the walkway. A few spots of chewing gum spatter the ground, but it looks perfectly respectable. Children would walk home down here; play here in good weather.

There's a man waiting there. He's short, with brown hair and a matching beard, and is sporting a bulging overcoat. Sherlock sniffs, his grip on his own coat tightening a little. Instantly, he catalogues the man's face: the set of his jaw, his cheekbones, his eyes crinkled at the edges. He's late forties, lives alone, ex-engineer judging by his boots, but fallen on hard times and sucked into drugs. He's different to the man Sherlock met last. That surprises him: he would have thought the group would be more careful, allowing customers to see only a very select number of them, just in case one turned to the police. Then again, he reasons, as a gust of wind blows a strong smell of smoke from the man, he himself hadn't given his name. This business was inextricably entwined with secrets and double-crossing, and revealing your identity was unwise. All they had to lose from revealing another member to him was another garbled description to the police. Of course, they didn't know who they were dealing with.

Or, did it mean that they _did_ know who they were dealing with; and they didn't want one member too extensively researched? Not enough evidence to be certain. Annoying.

Even in his days being dependant – as Mycroft had put it – on the drugs, Sherlock had never been keen on staying in the dealers' company for too long. Rather like in the case of the homeless network, disinfecting oneself after prolonged contact was necessary. Unfortunately, with this case, prolonged contact was vital. Trust. He needed to burrow beneath the hard exterior; he needed to them to trust him.

He approaches the man, giving him a wary nod, which is returned. They both contemplate each other for a few moments, before Sherlock draws closer. The man's expression seems to be fixed permanently in a state of suspicion, but the taller man is unperturbed. From experience, he knows such people to be very wary, particularly of outsiders, new customers – the drugs trade is so interlinked with crime and double crossing that it would be foolish to be complacent. There's rivals, and people so desperate they'll do anything to get what they need.

The exchange is quick: notes swapped for the same little packets that resided in the margarine tub at Baker Street, passed under their coats. There's no CCTV in this alley, but they both no there's nothing to gain by being sluggish. There's too much suspicion, too much they both have to lose by being caught. They exchange the same curt nods as they did in greeting, both leaving the opposite end of the alley that they came. The man, Sherlock notes, removes his coat before striding into view of the cameras near the school. Sherlock catalogues it, and fires off a quick text to Lestrade.

_Possibility murderer is changing clothes between cameras. Bear in mind. SH._

The amount of the drug he pockets this time is far less than previously. He needs more frequent meetings to speed up the process of gaining these people's trust. All he has at present is a mutual need to be discreet.

Upon exiting the alley at the opposite end, Sherlock finds himself emerging onto a quiet little street: all houses, with a little corner shop at the end. He enters the shop, buys a newspaper, and heads home. No point having the police suspecting him to have a part in the murders. That got tiring very quickly.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When he returns home, it is to find a very agitated John Watson, not dissimilar to the John Watson he has had to endure since the Sunday previously, when he first brought the heroin into the house. Unsurprisingly, the man is not encouraged by their fresh stock of it. Sherlock is genuinely touched by the concern – though still faintly insulted by John's perception of his willpower – but the constant worry is grating. He can feel it radiating off the doctor even in the silence, and it's annoying when one is trying to think.

He sinks into the sofa, takes one look at his flatmate, and rolls his eyes.

"Go on then. Let's hear it."

He reasoned that perhaps if John got it out of his system, he would be more bearable. People liked to voice their opinions. He watches the doctor closely, his pale eyes not leaving his face. John looks more strained than normal: there's a crease that seems constantly etched into his forehead now, that was never present before. That glint of excitement, always present on their cases, was tarnishing. He just looked tired.

At Sherlock's words he grins and shakes his head. Sherlock frowns pointedly, and nudges him with his toes.

"I'm just worried."

"About?"

"You. Those kids."

"John, I promise you I will not touch those drugs except for experimentation purposes," Sherlock tells him, injecting as much sincerity into his voice as he could muster. He meant it. He didn't want to see John like this.

John gives a smile, albeit a small and uncertain one.

"I know."

"Good."

There's silence for a moment, which John thankfully breaks. Sherlock had assumed he still had something to say, and as such had kept his own mouth shut. Of course, he had been right.

"This is a lot…more sinister than anything else we've done before. It's just getting to me."

Sherlock gives a sympathetic smile, and sighs. Although he wouldn't admit it out loud, this case has been 'affecting' him similarly. Not as much as John, but then, he was far more accustomed to switching off every shred of humanity. Here, the humanity kept on crawling back through his defences. He found his head reeling, his eyes stinging and his stomach lurching at random intervals; whenever his mind disobeyed him, calling up the images of the children from the morgue. He knew John was suffering from something similar, if his restless sleep was anything to go by. He could hear the doctor tossing and turning as he sat awake, thinking.

He'd tried desperately to delete the horror he felt at those little bodies, to retain only the ability to look at them analytically. It never worked. There was always that massive sense of waste, of those lives that had barely begun, snuffed out before their worth could be discovered properly.

He spots a fresh file stashed next to where his flatmate sat, and reaches for it automatically. John opens his mouth to explain, but Sherlock knows without the apologetic explanation. Lestrade had come to call.

Murder number seven.


	5. Chapter 5

**This has been a comparatively long gap, so apologies.**

**Warnings for drug references & one use of strong language. I totally lied about the rating. It might go up at some point, but I shall stop trying to guess when, because I fail at it. Enjoy (:**

**Also, I love reviews. Just saying :P**

Sherlock Holmes is agitated. He's sitting at the kitchen table of 221B, hair sticking up in all directions: a mass of jet, ruffled from prolonged abuse by the man's frustrated fingers, combed through it viciously as he contemplates the table in front of him.

The table itself is unrecognisable. Microscope, bottles, petri dishes, jar of hair samples, and the margarine tub – every single article has been stacked haphazardly on the counter to make room for the swathes of photographs the detective has sprawled across the wood. There's not a spare square inch on any kitchen surface, but immersed in his work, Sherlock has not spared a thought for the difficulty that might emerge as soon as anyone wants to use the kitchen for its intended purpose. His mind is fixed solely on his task.

His hands twitch as his eyes bore into the photo directly in front of him, threatening to return to his hair. He's spent hours – days – at the morgue, hours enduring snivelling parents, hours listening to Lestrade recount tales of those he's arrested: and still nothing. It's beginning to frighten him. He's _Sherlock Holmes_. He was the man whose mind worked incessantly, picked up on every detail and drew conclusions easily with the smallest amount of data. He can squeeze that data from the most hopeless of circumstances; he's used to having all the answers.

Yet all he's got is a few suspects caught by Lestrade that they both know full well have little, if anything, to do with the murders. The lack of decent evidence is terrifying.

John's voice, as it has become accustomed to doing, resonates throughout his mind.

_Who else would do this?_

Who else indeed? Sherlock frowns. He turns his attention to the picture in his hand again. He has to observe; really observe. There was no such thing as nothing to go on, it was impossible. This murderer had got close, definitely, but he couldn't erase his presence completely.

Something clicks, and Sherlock scrambles frantically through his mind to identify it.

He. _He!_

Oh. Of course.

The art of disguise was knowing how to hide in plain sight.

Sherlock slams both hands down on the table, and for the first time in days allows himself a triumphant grin. The picture he's holding is a grainy CCTV still of Laura Mitchell's last recorded moments. She's on one of the streets on the outskirts of the park, and next to her – next to her – is a woman.

He'd never noticed her before. She's standing close to Laura: close enough to indicate that they were together. When you looked at the photo, the brain immediately assumed her to be an older relative or carer: a mother, perhaps an aunt or a godparent. The scenario was so commonplace that the brain assumed her to be unimportant, thus disregarding her unconsciously, but she wasn't.

In that moment of realisation, Sherlock is hit once again by the sheer perfection of this whole operation. Had Laura and the woman been holding hands he would have noticed; it was a sign of protection, of care – and had that been present the mistake would have been obvious – because Laura went alone. Her parents were the only people who knew where she went. So a woman acting like close family would have stuck out. But she wasn't. She was just walking beside her. Beautiful.

His hands scrabble frantically for the rest of the stills. Like Laura, each child is accompanied by a woman. Two women, one or other of them in every single angle of the footage with the children. That was clever. That was gorgeous.

No one ever looked at the women. Not with child murders.

Sherlock rings Lestrade immediately, rushing downstairs and flinging himself into a cab as he clutches the ringing phone to his ear with his shoulder. In his hands reside a handful of CCTV photos, the ones with the women in them.

"Scotland Yard please," he tells the cabbie, turning his attention to his phone as the Detective Inspector picks up. He stacks the photos on the seat beside him momentarily so he can hold his mobile in his hand. "Lestrade. I think I've found our murderer."

The voice that answers him is not as jubilant as he might have hoped.

"Great." There's a pause. "Sherlock, can you get to the surgery?"

Sherlock feels his heart-rate increase dramatically, and it's with dread rather than anticipation.

"John's surgery?" he asks urgently, knowing without confirmation simply from Lestrade's tone. "Why?"

He can hear his voice rising, and tries to contain it. The panic setting in is irrational and alien.

"Tell me _why_," he persists. "Is he…?"

"Yeah, John's fine," the other man reassures him, but his tone stays grim nonetheless. "There's been another murder. Will you come?"

Sherlock agrees, stuffing the photos into an inside pocket and letting out a long slow breath of relief. He redirects the cabbie to the surgery, his mind working furiously. This was different. The location in itself suggested a pivotal change in what they were dealing with. Several ideas emerge immediately, ricocheting around the detective's mind, each with pros and cons, and differing probabilities of being correct.

Not only that, but as he watches sleepy commuters rushing past the window of his cab, Sherlock begins to agree with John. This was getting far too personal to be a coincidence.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When he bursts into the waiting room, the thing that strikes him first is his flatmate. John is sitting in one of the plastic chairs there, his hands curled together on his lap so tightly that Sherlock can see white blossoming on his knuckles. The colour matches his face: pale and sick-looking. His teeth are clenched; although when he spots Sherlock he does get up and attempt a smile. Sherlock judges the situation regarding the murder immediately from the man's face, but decides that at that moment, John is the priority. An extra minute wouldn't change anything.

"Are you alright?" he asks, making his way over, and looking down at the doctor, concerned.

"Yeah, fine," comes the expected answer. John licks his lips nervously, looks up, and manages another watery smile. "Just…its worse when you're not expecting it."

"I can imagine."

They stand and look at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, real smiles emerging on both faces. Sherlock notices that his flatmate is regaining his colour, and his hand is also reassuringly still. A little unsure of how to react, the detective tries a comforting hand on John's shoulder; but is saved moments later by Lestrade.

"Sherlock?" The DI's voice is a little more gentle than usual as he comes up behind the two men. He looks at John. "How're you doing, John?"

"Yeah, good."

Sherlock nods and moves away from his flatmate to survey Lestrade. He looks sombre; but not as shaken as John.

"I assume the latest victim was left here," Sherlock asks; more as a statement than a question. Lestrade nods, and digs his hands into his coat pockets. They glance at each other. Sherlock sighs. "This is getting personal."

He hears a slight hitch in John's breathing at his words, and his lips curve upwards in amusement. He's well aware of what the doctor wants to say, but he'll get to that later.

"It's also getting worse," Lestrade tells him, frowning. "This kid's from another school."

Sherlock closes his eyes.

"No." He says. "This is my fault."

John laughs drily behind him.

"Not the time to reassess your philosophies."

Sherlock scoffs, and spins to face him again.

"Don't you see?" he asks desperately, staring around at all the blank faces. "The branching out to other schools - _you, John _– this is too personal. The dealers have recognised me! And now he knows."

"He?"

John's voice is weary. It sounds resigned, and Sherlock resents that fact. He clears his throat, and fixes the doctor with a defiant stare.

"Yes. Moriarty."

"What?" The doctor's face switches instantly from tired to incredulous. "You actually think I was right?"

"Mmm."

"So he's the murderer?" Lestrade interjects, looking at Sherlock. His face is more positive than anyone's seen it looking for weeks. "Great."

"No."

"What?" the DI asks, his intrigue turning to irritation. "Who then? Can you stop playing games with me, and just _say_, Sherlock."

There's a moment of silence. John and Lestrade both watch Sherlock intently. John's face is interested, Lestrade's more annoyed: arms folded across his chest as he watches the detective. The only noise present is the other policemen moving around the clinic. There's several florescent jacket-adorned men carrying rolls of the blue and white police tape, whilst a couple of the forensics team – thankfully sans Anderson – file through the waiting room to the whereabouts of the body. Sherlock watches them, eyes narrowed.

Eyes still fixed on the offending members of the police force; Sherlock draws the CCTV stills from his pocket. He hands them absentmindedly to Lestrade, who bends over them. John mirrors the action. With the two apparently engrossed, Sherlock makes to the follow the forensics team, but is stopped by a strong hand on his forearm.

"We've looked at these hundreds of times," Lestrade tells him, pulling Sherlock back to where he and John stood.

"Look at the women with the children," Sherlock instructs, pointing. "The same two: one or other always with the victims. Our killers."

John shakes his head and grimaces.

"Well that just gives us one more thing to find," he states, his eyes meeting Sherlock's. "And if they have recognised you, I'll bet these murders get worse."

"Correct," Sherlock informs him cheerfully, darting away before Lestrade could prevent him again.

As he had deduced (so therefore had not needed directing), the victim lay on the floor of John's office. The boy was only a few feet inside the door: placed so that the body would be undisturbed by the opening of it, but only just. Sherlock skirts around the edge of the body – and really, the use of that term was a stretch with these victims – and crouches beside it; ignoring the sighs of Lestrade's team, who had been skulking in the corner, apparently 'about' to do something.

There's one positive aspect Sherlock can see, observing the abandoned child on the floor of the room. The killer was getting cruder, more clumsy. He had noticed on his way in that the CCTV around the surgery had been taken out: the omnipresent eyes of the cameras smashed; glass littering the pavement. It wasn't much, but the prospect of mistakes was getting increasingly likely, if the murders continued in this volume.

Sherlock's just unfolding to his full height when Lestrade and John appear in the doorway. He nods to them, and turns away, contemplating the rest of the room.

The majority of the room is painfully neat: a mixture of John's military precision, and the need for order in a doctor's surgery. Sherlock makes his way to the window. It's easily big enough to admit a relatively small man…or a more average sized woman, and judging by the small indent on the desk, Sherlock's inclined to believe the latter. Too bad for the murderer that John's desk was made of wood. Heel marks.

Sherlock darts around the desk, squinting at the window frame for fingerprints. He can't see any, but waves Lestrade over anyway.

"I'd check the window for fingerprints," he tells the DI, pointing. "There's a strong possibility she wore gloves, but it wouldn't hurt to check. As yet, this is the only occasion a body's been left inside, which leaves us with more hope of an error."

"Right," he agrees, nodding. "She? Though this looks the same as the rest, I'll give you."

Sherlock points to the dent in the desk.

"Okay."Lestrade nods again, his eyes drawn inexplicably to the little boy on the floor. Sherlock follows his gaze, and sighs."I suppose if we do get fingerprints, we've actually got one of the killers. That'd be a start."

Sherlock doesn't reply. He watches numbly as the men adorned in those ridiculous blue suits bend over the victim. He's inclined to believe they're wasting their time, but for once holds his tongue. He turns his attention instead to John; whose eyes are fixed on the little body by his doorway; where he stands still.

Sherlock doesn't detect particularly high levels of anguish, and turns away again, his eyes roving once again around the room.

Almost randomly, he opens the desk draw closest to him.

"Holy shit," Lestrade breathes beside him. Sherlock stares.

In the draw, perfectly removed from its owner, is a heart. There's silence for a moment, as the two men take it in.

It's perfect: it looks precisely like a lab specimen, a donor. It's human, Sherlock notes instantly, though he's inclined to believe its origins to be more sinister than just a theft from a laboratory. It wouldn't take long to test for DNA…to prove the owner was the boy on the floor.

Sherlock looks away long enough to turn to John again, and motion for him to come over. He too peers into the draw, before looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes and grimace.

"How long, would you say?"

John examines it more closely.

"A few hours. No more than six. Probably."

"Do you see what this means?" Sherlock asks quietly.

"This is about the '_I will burn the heart out of you'_, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock acknowledges, his brows furrowing. "What else? How?"

"I don't know," John tells him, his voice hushed to mirror Sherlock's. Lestrade would have trouble making out what they were saying anyway; but Sherlock's still glad he's pretending to examine the heel mark more closely, having taken the hint of the lowered voices.

"_You_."

John blinks.

"What?"

"Use your imagination, John." Sherlock clears his throat uncomfortably. "Moriarty's used you against me in the past."

The intensity of the subsequent eye contact is a bit much for both of them. Sherlock turns away rather hastily and joins Lestrade at the dent in the desk, leaving John to rub the back of his neck, and attempt to keep the smile from creeping onto his face.

As he gets to work explaining to Lestrade the approximate weight and foot size of the woman that had climbed through the window, Sherlock feels a corner of his own mouth twitch upwards too.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It's beginning to get dark, the orange of the street-lights outside the kitchen window of 221B draining the colour from the room. The detective is settled in his seat at the kitchen table as usual, poring over the evidence, his mind working furiously.

Well, trying.

Since the latest murder, at the surgery, his mind has been distinctly _un_focussed: wandering down dangerous paths that Sherlock would rather avoid. He takes great effort in hoisting it back every time, but it strays away again every time his concentration slips, even for a second.

It's not helping, he reflects, rather resigned to the fact of said wandering, that John isn't here. Ever since that morning, his mind keeps presenting him with images of John in those children's places – John lying on the floor of the flat, far too still. The fact that he's not there puts Sherlock on edge; because he can't be sure that he's alright.

His own distraction over John confirms to Sherlock more than ever the futile nature of 'caring'. What was the point of being so concerned about a person that you prevented yourself from helping them? Why on earth had humanity evolved like that? It was ridiculous.

Evolution, as he understood it, was meant to make a species function more effectively. This development did nothing of the sort.

Sherlock slams his palms onto the table in frustration, causing several sheets of paper to jump from its surface and litter the floor. His head aches, he can't concentrate, and he's got nothing. At least, not until he can really, _really _just _think_. He needs to relax, revert back to the sensible analytical machine that his mind used to be. His hands move to his head and grip his own hair so hard it hurts.

Not for the first time; Sherlock's mind drifts away from the wooden seat beneath him, and the laptop and photos in front of him…wandering instead to the counter. It wanders to the crumbs left by John this morning as he made toast, then slightly to the left. It wanders to the margarine tub, stacked beneath the jar with the hair samples.

It wanders to the little packets within, and the feel of the powder, jostling in the palm of his hand.

Sherlock presses his lips together and frowns. Whatever he might tell Mycroft, or Lestrade, or even John…the draw of heroin has been ever present since he got clean. On the odd occasions that the subject has come up between him and his flatmate, he's made his habits sound like ancient history. Lestrade and Mycroft are a little wiser regarding the matter, but he suspects it's only his brother that even has an idea about the pull that he has to reject every day. It's been persistent, but not overpowering, more a background hum than a powerful urge, but it's there. Always. And now things have fallen silent, Sherlock can't push the hum away: the harder he tries to ignore it, the louder it seems. Even when he tries to drown it with noisy thoughts about the case, he can still detect it. It's still there. When his mind lingers on the dead children, or worse, his imaginings about John, the hum intensifies, becomes more painful.

He needs to just _think_. He needs to clear his head.

It was essential.

Once couldn't hurt.


	6. Chapter 6

**Well hello there :) rating up to M now. Possibly overkill, but I think I'd feel uncomfortable encouraging 13 year olds to read this, so that clinched it...**

**Explicit drug use from the start.**

There's about a square foot of clear space on the counter now. Sherlock has shifted his microscope and some acid bottles into a relatively safe corner of the floor, and created for himself a small workspace. In it lays an odd assortment of things: a tea light, a box of matches, a spoon with several chips, and a stinging yellow plastic lemon – containing lemon juice. Also, rather ominously, the margarine tub stands next to this open space, its lid lying beside it.

Sherlock is a few feet away from the space, supported by the kitchen table, his pale grey eyes staring into the small square that's almost empty amongst the chaos. One of his hands is curled into a fist around a tiny syringe. The needle shines orange in the streetlights, a tiny metal fang ready to bite, to shoot venom into the veins of the man that clutched it like a lifeline.

There's hesitation in him yet, that much is certain, as he stands immobile, entranced by the kitchen surface. He sniffs, swallows, and looks around.

It's almost; he muses, as if he's waiting for someone to burst in and wrestle him to the ground, and tell him that he is _not _under any circumstances to inject himself, because if he does, then that someone is going to bloody well kill him.

The silence stretches on, and Sherlock moves. In the absence of an interceptor, his mind recalls easily the release the drug brought, the rush of fierce, uncontrollable, and entirely false joy. He remembers the feeling of apparent freedom, and he steps over the gap between him and the counter.

The process of preparation, too, is far too easily recalled. His fingers fumble in his haste; tipping a small measure of the powder into the bowl of the spoon. The utensil is momentarily discarded as long fingers strike a match. He watches the flame for a few moments, watches the flickering white crawl along the match towards his fingers. The light dances in his eyes as he lights the little candle, illuminating something resembling defiance kindling in their depths. The tiny flame sits on the counter and pitches slightly from the detective's breathing, which sends long, dark shadows from the spoon and the lemon juice. It gives an ominous backlight to Sherlock's intentions, being the only light source in the room. Sherlock had neglected to switch on the light.

He feels slightly jumpy, but his fingers are steady as he adds a few drops of lemon juice to the spoon, followed by a few water droplets from the tap. Sherlock holds the spoon in his long pale fingers, swilling it slightly until the contents becomes a thin translucent brown liquid, glistening in the candlelight.

Holding the spoon as steady as possible, Sherlock moves it into the flame of the candle, allowing the contents to dissolve fully in the heat provided. He can smell it now: the familiar, reassuring scent that sent his head spinning and his heart pounding in anticipation. A part of him is ashamed at his reaction.

But how is he meant to think if he can't get the dead children out of his mind?

Pushing back the surge of self-revulsion, Sherlock rests the spoon on the counter once again, careful not to splash any of his precious solution onto the surface, and carefully sliding the plunger from his syringe.

The next part is fiddly, but he manages it easily with well-practised fingers: tipping the coffee coloured liquid into the tiny syringe, managing not to waste a drop.

He stops again; and once again it's almost as if he's waiting for something. His eyes survey the filled syringe with something akin to suspicion.

But they change: doubt morphing into hunger, cautiousness to recklessness.

In one swift movement, the metal of the needle is inches from the delicate skin in the crook of his arm. It gleams; the dark metal contrasting with the white of his skin. Just visible, he can see the vulnerable blue of his veins through the translucent skin.

He swallows, and smiles.

It's a relief to feel the familiar sting of cool metal piercing his skin, burrowing into the sensitive walls of his vein. A bead of blood surfaces as the needle plunges into his arm. The scene is comforting, it's familiar, and it feels like danger and adrenaline. It feels like running from sirens, pounding headaches, collapsing in hotel foyers, kicks and bruises and shouting, and pushing Mycroft away so hard he fell, clinging and crying and waking up in unfamiliar bathrooms. It feels like the life he tried to leave behind, but never quite managed it. It feels like home.

There's no hesitation now, as he presses the plunger down, and feels the drug rush through his veins. He closes his eyes and smiles. Crouching on the floor of 221B, he's losing the reasons he gave this up.

Why couldn't he be addicted to this _and_ his work? Why did people insist on renouncement?

He gets up, his brain still insisting on a certain level of dignity, even now. He can feel the slightly dazed smile on his lips, and the thought broadens it into a full blown grin. There's something almost feral in that smile: a primal thrill in this manufactured euphoria. It's a powerful rush, and it's beautiful.

The rush of joy brings with it an unnatural alertness. Sherlock's eyes feel wide and staring as they dart eagerly around the flat, his tongue moistens his lips as he thinks. Like this, he feels invincible. It brings the details all into sharp relief, brings everything into a clearer light. His mind is blissfully clear.

But there's something he's forgotten…something important.

In his heightened state of alertness, Sherlock quickly identifies what he's neglected: the assortment of items strewn on the counter, that would betray him to John. With unadulterated exhilaration burning through his veins, he finds it difficult to understand precisely why he wants to hide the evidence from his flatmate, but he's got enough of a recollection of what it feels like without it to realise that he doesn't want to disagree with John. Things were always worse when that happened.

It doesn't take long to hide the evidence and replace what had previously occupied the space. He dumps the remaining packets of the drug into the margarine tub, secures the lid, and admires his work. It might not have fooled his brother, but John wouldn't notice.

That done, he turns his mind back to his case. His muscles buckle suddenly, and he staggers across the room a little wildly, limbs flailing. He grabs onto his laptop and a haphazard stack of photos and notes, and stumbles into the lounge, before collapsing onto the sofa.

He deduces that he's experiencing the usual muscle relaxation; but it's not severe enough to prevent him functioning, and it's his mind that matters in any case – and that feels perfect. He opens his computer, and in the hope of finding something new, brings one of the photos of the children and their killers up level with his eyes. Of course, the picture is grainy, but there's a certain amount that could still be detected.

His eyes scan the woman up and down: his old, cold and purely analytical stare. The ability to do so draws another smile to his face, and he feels his cheeks flush with pleasure.

She's not dressed prettily, he notices immediately. Her trousers and jacket are both clearly cheaply made even from this distance, which indicates instantly that she's likely dressed for work. Not only that, but on the right breast of the jacket is a tiny logo. The writing or symbol is unreadable from the photo, but the fat, symmetrical trapezium shape of it narrows down the list of possible workplaces significantly. The navy blue of all her clothing helped clarify the point too - there were few women who would voluntarily leave home in one shade.

Also, the company was probably based in London. Not certain, but certainly probable.

He begins tapping feverishly at the keys of his laptop. The casual style of the jacket coupled with the sensible navy, suggested the company operated in either the production or construction industries, something where practicality was more important that employee presentation. It narrows it down, again.

A quick bit of research on Google later, and Sherlock's narrowed it down to just three possibilities: a company that distributed spare car parts, a warehouse in the east of London, and a rather interesting garden retailers not far from Baker Street. With the connection with the drug scandal, Sherlock's inclined to try that place first: it would be only too easy to disguise the drugs as garden goods: compost, fertiliser. Properly done, he doubted they would go detected.

His rather lopsided grin is tainted by disgust at himself for not seeing this before: for succumbing to the weakness of worrying, and letting his disgust at the murders blind him to the little details. Inwardly, Sherlock memorises every tiny aspect of the state of mind currently provided by the heroin, so that he could replicate it alone when contemplating this case. This - experiment - demonstrated that he needed to concentrate firmly on the positive, the joy of his work, and turn his back so firmly on the horror that it would be impossible for it to bother him.

It's on his way down the stairs that he meets John, going the opposite way. As he catches John's eyes and grins at him widely, his legs give way underneath him, causing him to hurtle down the remaining stairs, and land in a crumpled heap at the bottom, where he lies, trying to supress a giggle.

John, he notices with hilarity, seems to find less amusement in the situation. His concerned eyes as Sherlock sits up, only causes a stronger wave of mirth to crash over the detective. He manages to control the laughter from breaking free of him, but only just.

"Are you alright?" John asks him uncertainly, joining him at the bottom of the stairs. He smells of Sarah, and Sherlock frowns.

"Of course," he says, giving a disdainful sniff. "Are you coming?"

He gets to his feet, and it amuses him greatly to make a point of looking disgruntled and angry as he brushes dust from his coat. He finds that he's entertained by the fact that John is oblivious to his activities: that he's so skilful as to go undetected. It's fun.

"Where?"

John sounds suspicious, and Sherlock can see him squinting in his direction with doubt. He curses himself for falling, and sighs at his flatmate.

"To investigate companies possibly connected with our murderers. Or you could stay here."

He tries to look steadily at his flatmate.

"No, I'll come," John agrees, although his eyes are still fixed on Sherlock in a searching way that makes him nervous. "Wouldn't be easier when they're actually open, though?"

"No." Sherlock decides, wrenching open the front door, and pulling John along with him. "Taxi!"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The dark shelves swim before Sherlock's eyes. He's so tired: he can feel his eyelids drooping against his will, the scene flickering into double images in the wavering torchlight. Yellow and grey overlap in a blur of dizzy sepia. In a desperate attempt to stay awake, he blinks hard. Gradually the shop stops swaying, and Sherlock is able to collapse against a shelf, breathing rather hard.

Getting in had been no problem: it had taken about a minute to pick the lock and let themselves in – John fretting the entire time, of course – and what they'd found had been incredibly interesting. At the back of the shop was a large store cupboard, its area almost equal to the amount of space in the store, and in it were stacks upon stacks of merchandise. Potted plants threw dark shadows across their faces as the torch leered over them, there were huge bags of fertiliser and bark and compost covering almost every inch of floor, only a thin path left clear for access to the shelves.

Trying to shun the sudden wave of drowsiness, Sherlock searches his pockets for something sharp; and managing to procure a compass from the inside of his jacket, he sets about attacking the bags with it. At first, they seemed to contain exactly what they claim – which again, causes an attack of ridiculous moral feeling in the doctor – but as Sherlock shifts the front bags out of the way, he spots a tiny 'X' adorning the harder to reach produce, and when slit open, they reveal exactly what he had expected.

Huge, 10kg bags of class A illegal drugs, stacked in the back of 'Jay's Gardening Store'. There were only 10 stores nationwide. There could easily be millions of pounds worth of produce in this one dingy back room.

"Got it!" He shouts across to John, who had been peering out of the tiny window of the storeroom door, nervously watching for intruders on their investigation. "Heroin," he tells his flatmate proudly.

John looks at him, his face incredulous. He takes the handful of brownish powder that Sherlock hands him and exhales a whistling breath through his teeth. Sherlock grins at him, feeling the intoxicating mixture of exhilaration from his find, and that from the substance running in his veins. His grin blossoms into a laugh, and he grabs his flatmate by the shoulders and positively beams at him.

Something occurs, and he spirals wildly away from John, his hands gesticulating by the sides of his head in realisation.

"Oh." He says, mouth slightly open in shock at his own blindness. "Of course! John. John…we've got them!"

John looks quite stunned at this information.

"At least one of the killers is involved with this place," he tells John eagerly. "With a description, it won't be hard to identify her. The other…the other is a cleaner at the original school! It's so obvious. How did I miss it?"

"Wait, slow down," John says, holding out a hand to pause Sherlock's rant. "Obvious? I don't see."

"The window!" Sherlock exclaims, smacking his forehead with one hand. "The window was open! At the school, the first time I saw it. With so much security and precautions in place there, the cleaners would never leave the windows open. But what if one of them needed access to the school whenever they wanted it: access to school records, pupils' details? It would be perfect. We just need to identify the offending cleaner, which shouldn't be difficult when we've got photos of her."

"But what about all the checks…CRB checks, they look at your criminal convictions when you apply for a job. You said this wasn't a first time murder."

Sherlock gives John a rather withering look.

"Please try and remember who we're dealing with, John."

He takes a deep breath, and feels his senses reawaken a bit. The desperate tiredness abates.

"Oh, and text Lestrade. If we leave this until morning, they'll know someone's got them, and move all the evidence."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Everything hurts. There's something bright and intense burning through his eyelids, making his head pound. The buzz that had ravaged through him the night before has gone, leaving only a wistful memory, and a head full of that penetrating fear.

Sherlock groans, lifting himself from his mattress. He can hear the television in the next room, and John moving around, and trudges from his room to have a look.

"You look terrible," John tells him by way of greeting. Scowling, Sherlock deduces that he's probably correct. He can feel the dampness of old sweat on his face, and his eyes are screwed up against the light.

His mouth is uncharacteristically dry, and he stumbles clumsily to the sink, filling a vaguely clean glass to the brim and downing it in one. He leans against the counter and breathes heavily, clutching his throbbing head.

"You look like Harry on New Year's Day," John tells him lightly. He chuckles to himself. Then – "No, That's unfair. You look more like _me _on New Year's Day."

"Mhmm," Sherlock mumbles, staggering back towards his own room, and leaning heavily on the doorframe. From the high of the previous night, the negativity and discomfort the morning has brought is doubly hard to deal with. What he wouldn't do just to be able to erase it all.

Properly dressed, he feels a little better, if only marginally, and glances over at the television in time to catch a piece on the case.

'_Panic begins to emerge across London as the brutal child murders reported over the past months become more frequent and widespread. The acting chief commissioner of the metropolitan police has this morning confirmed a ninth murder, following only two days after the murder of twelve year old James. As parents begin to question their children's safety at school, the police force urges people not to panic, and encourages anyone with any information to come forward.'_

Sherlock tries for a smile, and manages a grimace.

"Well, we've got information," he says, getting up and switching the programme off. "Coming, John?"

The doctor hesitates for a moment.

"I don't know…I've got." He stops, his eyes flicking back towards the now blank screen. They glaze over, settling in a determined expression. "Of course. What can I do?"


	7. Chapter 7

**This a very, very long chapter. Still. Thanks are due to elsa3beth for pointing out a small mistake which is now fixed (I hope it's okay, now, anyhow), for which I am very grateful :)**

**Reviews are always greatly appreciated too, don't forget! :)**

As it had turned out, John muses, as he sits in silence next to Sherlock in the cab, Sherlock's suggestion of texting Lestrade hadn't gone as planned. He'd taken it back almost as soon as the words left his mouth, taken a few seconds of silence to think, and changed his mind several times. In the end, they'd texted the DI a photo of the evidence, the address, and a request not to do anything until Sherlock said (and John had felt bad about that, because the police shouldn't be running around after Sherlock: Lestrade in particular when he cut the man so much slack anyway). He'd sent the message regardless, and they'd spent a nervous half hour sweeping the mess up off the floor and stashing the ruined bags at the back, in the hope they'd remain undetected long enough for Sherlock to catch the killer.

It was a risk, but so was walking down the stairs.

The experience was not one John planned on putting in his blog, or for that matter, repeating. Despite the late hour, he'd insisted on taking a shower as soon as they arrived home, in a vain attempt to wash away the feeling of criminality. Sherlock had been no help; standing outside the door of the bathroom making exuberant and unhelpful comments.

Anyway, in the light of day, the store is significantly less intimidating, although that possibly has something to do with the fact that the pair of them have not broken in illegally. John is armed with a photo of the killer Sherlock believes to work here (Sherlock has texted Lestrade the other, and instructed him to find her and arrest her. Lestrade did not appreciate being instructed twice in under twelve hours) and his gun, which is stashed in the pocket of his jacket. He has qualms about using it in broad daylight, but it could be useful if the woman proves uncooperative to capture. He's still got no idea how Sherlock even imagines they're going to get her back to Scotland Yard.

They let themselves in through the entrance without the use of tools this time, and make their way to the counter. There's a man sitting behind it with a head of thin brown hair and a beard. He looks friendly enough, a small smile playing on his lips even at this time in the morning, as he browses his paper and hums to himself. John's about to interrupt him and ask about the woman, when he feels fingers close very tightly indeed around his upper arm, and he is pulled behind a shelf with almost brutal force.

He snaps around, halfway to smacking his apprehender away, when he realises it's only Sherlock, currently sighing at his reaction.

"What?" he hisses, annoyed, trying to wriggle out of the detective's painfully tight grip.

"He's one of the drug dealers!" Sherlock whispers back, loosening his hold on John's arm, but not letting go. John wrenches it from his fingers, and answers, his hushed manner laced with poorly concealed irritation.

"The man working the till is a drug dealer?"

"Yes."

"The man working the till is a bloody drug dealer?"

"_Yes._"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes! Honestly John, do you think we'd be huddled behind a shelf did it not matter?"

Sherlock pokes his forehead around the edge of the aisle. John watches, feeling a little aggrieved.

"Fine. Why does it matter, then? Particularly."

"Because he'll recognise me! And probably you, if anyone involved has been on the internet recently."

John sighs, recognising the problem. He wonders briefly why Sherlock had not allowed for it before they left. However, at the emergence of such a problem, the weight of the gun hidden in the pocket of his jacket is brought to the forefront of his mind. Looking up, he notices that Sherlock's watching him carefully, and they share a quick glance. Sherlock nods, one corner of his mouth twitching skywards.

"Bit crude, isn't it?" John asks, grinning.

"Completely." Sherlock tells him, rolling his eyes, and fixing his gaze on John's pocket.

They emerge from their hiding place and meander up the central aisle. Sherlock stops every so often to inspect the merchandise, occasionally pointing to something or other and asking John's opinion. The acting doesn't come to the doctor as easily as it does to Sherlock, and he dearly hopes he doesn't look as awkward as he feels. They reach the counter after what feels like an age. There's a long pause, as the man engrossed in his newspaper fails to notice them.

John makes an indistinct noise in the back of throat, but when that draws no reaction Sherlock raps his knuckles on the wood to capture the man's attention. As the detective's eyes scan the man across the counter up and down, analysing him, John slips his hand into the pocket of his jacket. His fingers curl around the metal of the gun. With his left hand, he delves more openly into the other pocket, handing Sherlock the enlarged photograph of the woman.

The man lowers his paper at the disturbance. The action is slow and deliberate. If he's surprised to see either John or Sherlock in the shop he doesn't show it: although John feels his flatmate bristle beside him.

The detective's outward manner, however, is cool and polite.

"Hi there," Sherlock says, with what John deems a fairly convincing smile. The taller man leans forwards and brandishes the photo in front of the dealer's nose. "I don't suppose it would be possible to speak to this –" he pauses, and John appreciates the sense of aversion to his next words – "lovely lady here, would it? I'm led to believe she works here, and I really do need to speak with her."

He gives another smile. John thinks it looks a bit more forced than the first, because the man behind the counter begins to look surlier. His eyes darken, his mouth forms a scowl. John's grip on the cool metal in his pocket tightens; he shares a tense glance with Sherlock.

"You must have made a mistake." The man says. There's no doubt regarding his scowl now, and although his voice is calm, there's a hint of a threat in it.

"I don't do that," Sherlock tells him, a real grin emerging. He's in his element, the arrogant git. "Frightful waste of time, don't you think?"

The scowl deepens into a hostile glare. Sherlock glows.

The man blinks, and in the time it takes him to do so John makes his decision, whips the gun from his pocket, and has it pointed directly and steadily into the man's face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock turn and check for onlookers.

"We weren't asking," he tells him. "Is she coming in today? Don't even think of running away."

The man blanches, and John points the weapon more decisively. The action draws a stuttering response from him; he recoils and backs further away.

"Yeah."

"When?" John persists, making his way around the counter to get a better aim. The man pales further. "I've not got all day, and my colleague here is one of the most impatient people I've ever met."

Sherlock looks half offended through his grin.

"She…she'll be in soon."

"How soon?" Sherlock asks, leaning over the counter to glare at the cowering man. "I want a _time_."

"Fifteen minutes."

Sherlock retracts his aggressive stance. John does not.

"I guess you won't mind us waiting with you, then?" he asks, settling himself beside the man and smiling almost pleasantly. He hides his gun under his coat, but the butt is still firmly pointed at the person beside him.

Sherlock seems to lose interest in the whole affair, and wanders around the shop, picking things up at random, and making occasional scoffing noises.

The next fifteen minutes is tense. Nobody talks much, the only noise being Sherlock's mumblings to himself as he examines the produce. One woman comes in during their wait, but Sherlock's hostile glare means she leaves very quickly.

It's just coming up to nine o clock when another woman enters, and from there things move very fast.

Sherlock leaps out from examining a potted plant to flatten her and pin her to the floor. Soil and terracotta litter the floor in the excitement. The two grapple for a few minutes, John torn between those wrestling on the ground, and the possibility of the dealer escaping. When a punch from the woman is followed by a horrible crunch and scarlet pouring from Sherlock's face, John makes his decision, leaping over the counter to intervene.

Sherlock is undeterred by the injury, but the spilled blood combined with the other mess on the floor causes him to slip, and the woman to scramble to her feet; and John bolts towards her. He rips the gun from his jacket, and lashes out with it in desperation. The metal collides with her head with a satisfying crack and she crumples to the floor a few feet from the exit.

John feels a huge wave of relief, combined with a hint of self-disgust. Breathing hard, he recognises that perhaps right now wasn't the time for chivalry, but he does feel a slight twinge of guilt at his having just knocked a woman out: even despite her criminal atrocities.

Sherlock appears not to have the same qualms. Now back on his feet, he flips the killer onto her back with his foot. That done, he grabs the man still cowering behind the counter by the collar, and sits him beside the unconscious woman. Once John has hold of the man by his wrists, he calls Lestrade, and they wait.

A minute passes in companionable silence.

"Sherlock, could you hold him for a second?" John asks. He indicates the man beside him on the floor, almost limp from shock and fear.

"No. You're stronger than me. It would be illogical."

"Sherlock, please," John pleads. "You're dripping blood everywhere."

Sherlock glances down, and his eyebrows rise at the scarlet stripe on his white shirt. He seems genuinely surprised.

"Oh yes," he acknowledges. "That shirt's ruined now."

"Wasn't what I was concerned about."

Sherlock gives a sigh, but takes the man's wrists when John offers them to him, and allows him to gingerly feel his nose.

John tries to be gentle, but as he slowly puts pressure on the bridge of the detective's nose, the man gives a huge flinch and swears rather viciously at him.

"That was uncalled for," he comments lightly.

"It hurts!" Sherlock protests loudly, shaking the man's wrists up and down in agitation. The man gives a slight whimper, which the detective ignores. John smiles.

"Well it would. It's broken."

"Oh well. My nose is hardly vital."

"It is when you're pouring your blood out onto the floor," John informs him grimly. He pulls his jumper off over his head, and rips a small strip off the bottom of his shirt, which he hands to Sherlock. He's well practised at ignoring the sickening drip of blood, that's spattering red onto the linoleum tiles.

"Here. Pinch it, and stem the blood with that. You'll need to go to A & E anyway, but this will do for now."

Sherlock frowns at him.

"What?" John asks, failing to see what he could have done to offend the detective. He notices the man's eyes are glaring at the now ragged edge to his shirt.

"You could have used mine, as it's ruined anyway."

John smiles, claps a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and moves to peer out of the shop door.

"I know, but I'd rather Lestrade didn't arrive to find me attempting to rip your clothes off." He thinks back to the panic following the Pool Incident, and the blossoming scarlet. "Again."

He hears Sherlock chuckle behind him. The laugh is infectious and he hears his own quiet snicker join in. By the time the screaming blue police lights appear on the street, the chuckles have grown into full-blown laughter. John's shirt is ripped, Sherlock's covered in his own blood, there's a woman unconscious between them, and a man restrained by Sherlock's side and John finds he can't contain himself. For a good few minutes neither of them can stop. Lestrade's bemused, resigned expression does nothing to quell the pair's laughing.

This was the adrenaline-driven lifestyle that they both thrived on; something this case had long deprived them of.

After a brief explanation, John and Lestrade heave the woman into the back of the police car, and handcuff the man in next to her: though he walks the few feet quite willingly. John goes to follow, but Sherlock makes a pained noise in his throat.

"What?" John asks, perplexed.

"I can take a cab."

It's all he can do not to bury his face in his hands.

"Think of it as a _free_ cab," John instructs him, pushing the detective roughly into the front seat next to Lestrade and slamming the door, ignoring his protests. He himself climbs in next to the offenders. The woman's head lolls onto his shoulder. Given her crimes, he would usually be disgusted, but considering that he knocked her out with a solid block of metal, he feels he should probably excuse the involuntary action.

On Sherlock's 'request', the Detective Inspector has also brought a reasonable section of the drugs squad with him, and after a quick shove in the right direction they set to work, and the police car pulls away from the store. Already the doorway has been cordoned off with police tape.

The two arrestees are taken directly into custody, and are initially identified by their name tags, although the names and pictures are passed onto Lestrade's team to be confirmed.

The problem comes when they make to leave Scotland Yard. Sherlock is disinclined – to say the least – to leave before he gets a look at the captors himself, or before getting to berate the rest of the Yard for information regarding the arrest of the other killer.

John watches him argue with Lestrade. Although his cheeks are tinged pink with indignation, he's far paler than earlier, and looks terrible with the streak of dried blood across his face. The piece of cloth he holds in one hand is soaked through. John breathes in, and wonders whether an intervention would help, or just slow the process down.

"Remind me which part of my nose is so vital to me, that it's worth several idle, wasted hours!"

"Sherlock, the killers aren't going anywhere." Lestrade's voice is calm and reasonable, and John admires his patience. He supposes he's had to deal with a stubborn detective for years longer than himself.

"I don't see why I should either!"

"Because if you don't, then I can easily withdraw permission for you to be involved with the case."

John smiles, watching Sherlock's face twitch in annoyance.

"You know full well you'd be lost without my help."

"According to you, I've got the killers locked up downstairs."

Sherlock grinds his teeth. John's smile broadens somewhat.

"_Fine_," the detective eventually agrees. He marches towards the exit glowering, his hand absently brushing the caked blood from his upper lip.

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Hospitals, John finds, hold some kind of comfort. Perhaps it's simply the familiarity of them, because they're hardly cheerful: this waiting room alone is heavily scattered with crying children, and people wincing in pain as they move. He's already spotted what look like a good three or four broken legs. It's more the cleanliness, perhaps, the hordes of smiling, identical nurses, and the knowledge that behind the white paint and lights and aprons there's a battle raging. A battle that's striving to save rather than maim. Behind those disinfected doors people are recovering, being given the chance to live. There's an intoxicating mix of fear and hope hanging in the air. Sometimes it's hard to distinguish between the two.

He, Sherlock & Lestrade settle themselves on the garish green chairs like some kind of distorted family. Sherlock sits in the centre, slouching and scowling, blood all over his shirt and face: the little boy that had fallen over and hurt himself. John and Lestrade sit either side of him in silence, the watchful parents. The concept is bizarre, though not so far from reality.

"Did you get her?" Sherlock asks into the silence after half an hour. John, who had fallen into a doze, jerks awake and blinks at his flatmate, momentarily thrown off.

"What?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock amends, turning his head a few degrees towards the addressed. "The other woman, did you get her? The one in the photo, I mean, not just a perfectly innocent cleaner to make the force look like they're getting somewhere. I didn't check."

"Yeah, of course we did." Lestrade makes no elaboration, understandably annoyed.

Silence falls again. John fiddles absently with some loose threads hanging from his shirt. He has the distinct feeling he's forgotten something.

"And John," Sherlock adds, his head inching round so John can at least see the man's face in profile. "Won't the surgery be interested in your whereabouts?"

"Ah f – …damn it!" He hears the chuckle in Sherlock's throat, and it takes a great deal of restraint to not elbow him in the ribs. "Right. Won't be a minute."

He gets up, and makes his way to the exit of the hospital. The air outside is cool, and it helps clear his head from the lethargic waiting room as the wind runs long fingers through his hair, and brings a fresh, welcome sting to his eyes. He dials Sarah's number with rather more reluctance than usual, and waits for her to pick up, on edge.

"John?"

"Sarah, hi." John pauses, and swallows hesitantly. He got the feeling this wasn't going to be their most successful conversation.

"Hi," she repeats, and he can hear concern in her voice. "Is everything alright? I was going to call and check, but it's been so hectic all morning, and…you know."

John smiles at the sentiment.

"No, I'm fine: just had to take Sherlock to A & E."

He hears Sarah gasp, and feels bad.

"Oh God, what happened? Is _he _okay?"

"Fine." John finds himself disinclined to elaborate much on the situation.

"John?"

"He got punched, broken nose. We could there a while."

There's a silence at the other end of the line that John doesn't like at all.

"He's a fully grown man, John!" Sarah exclaims, the concern in her voice switching instantly to indignation. "He doesn't need you to hold his hand for everything! I've done three times the usual amount of patients this morning, I've had people complaining to me about us running late…this isn't a game. You can't skip work for no good reason! I don't care if your flatmate has a broken nose! Unless he is physically incapable of taking himself to a hospital, you have to be at work."

John sighs. There was no denying her logic, and he feels terrible. Also, considering his reliance on it, it was surprising how little Sherlock Holmes conformed to logic. He always seemed to be the bloody exception.

"Sarah," John begins, deciding to tell her the truth. "We've got those killers. The ones behind all those child murders?"

He hears a sniff, and waits.

"That's what the police are for."

"Sarah, I'm sorry."

"I want you here now. I don't care if Sherlock claims he's incapable of breathing without you, you have got to finish your shift."

"Can I still see you on Friday?"

Although the pause is brief, it feels like the longest yet.

"Of course." He can hear the smile, and indulges in a small smile himself. "Bye John."

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When John rushes through the door of the surgery about twenty minutes later, he can see what Sarah had meant. The waiting room is considerably more crowded than normal, almost every seat taken, filled with people with varying looks of discomfort or irritation on their faces. He gives them a brief smile, and turns away.

As he does so, the television in the corner of the room catches his attention. There's a red band running across the bottom of the screen, and the breaking news plastered across it stops him in his tracks.

It was funny, how panic and confusion made a person entirely selfish. John's straight out of the door again, has dialled Sherlock's number, and jammed his phone to his ear, before he's really had time to absorb the information, to think things through.

It's also funny, in moments of panic and confusion, how one starts praying that their flatmate hasn't chosen then to be the one time they conformed to instruction: and switched their phone off in a hospital.

But perhaps the funniest revelation of all was how flu and coughs and infection paled in comparison to the tenth child murder – and while Sherlock's logic said it should, John really should hold his patients in greater regard: but he couldn't. Not then. It was funny that the condoner of caring should abandon nervous patients and the pleas of his girlfriend for Sherlock and his ridiculous games: and all for the sake of one more small girl, who was already dead.


	8. Chapter 8

**Kind of an inbetween-y chapter, this one. Lots of grouchy detective, though :D**

**NOTE: The tune Sherlock plays on the violin is the theme to 'Requiem For A Dream'. Not seen the film, but the music is amazing. Youtube it if you haven't heard it, really.**

Of his many talents, patience was not one that Sherlock particularly prided himself on. He could exercise it if necessary, but aside from those rare occasions, he considered it a mainly fruitless exercise that could be avoided by bluntness and on occasion, bribery.

It was surprising, therefore; he reflected as he scowled at his flatmate from across the room, that he put up with John at all.

It was hardly his fault that he had been punched in the face by a serial killer, he was _definitely_ unaccountable for the bandage plastered across his nose, and it was far from unreasonable that he should be put out by both facts – and as such, it was painfully unfair that his flatmate was allowed to laugh at him as he entered a room. The dressing was neither comfortable, dignified or in his mind particularly necessary, and as such, a decent flatmate would do him the courtesy of at least ignoring the dratted thing.

He had considered inflicting the same injury on John, and seeing how he liked it, but Sherlock had the nasty feeling that the doctor would accept it in that irritating, tolerant manner, and he was not in the mood to deal with the unfathomable benevolence of John Watson.

He satisfies himself instead by throwing a cushion – what the hell it was doing in the kitchen, he would never know or care – at John's head. The resulting grunt of indignation brings a smile to his face.

The show of happiness is short-lived, the upwards curve of his lips drooping back into a far more serious expression. Dropping his gaze from his flatmate, he kneads his lower arm with his thumb, running it over the patches secured onto the skin.

The creak of the floor and the rustle of material on skin heralds the arrival of John Watson behind him.

"Is that…?" John asks, still holding the missile in his left hand, and peering over Sherlock's shoulder with interest. The detective smiles, and watches the other man's features switch from intrigue to disbelief in a moment. Always good for entertainment. "Sherlock, is that _five_ patches?"

"Remarkably observed, Dr Watson," he remarks, cocking his head to the side, and subjecting the doctor to a sarcastic stare.

"I thought the idea of nicotine patches was to wean you _off_ the addiction," John states lightly, shaking his head. He goes to the drainer, and rummages for a glass. There was a clean one in the cupboard, but Sherlock neglects to tell him. Instead, he watches him rinse one plucked from the sink itself, revelling in the irony of John worrying over the use of nicotine, and observing the differences in the ways the water tumbled over skin and glass.

Sherlock makes no response, just continues the methodical kneading of his arm, as if by pressing down on the patches, he could somehow make the effect stronger, force them through the skin.

"I started out with one," he says finally, pale eyes flicking upwards as John joins him at the table. "But it's not working. It's infuriating."

His gaze drops again, teeth clench, and a hiss of irritation slips between them.

"Well, please don't add anymore."

"I _can't_," Sherlock admits, frowning. "Ran out."

There's a moment of quiet, as John takes a drink of water. Sherlock watches, disinterested.

"It's blindingly obvious what's going on," he says, more to himself than to John, although from the doctor's stance, he can see he has the man's attention. "Certainly in the broader sense, if not in detail yet. It would hardly be difficult for Moriarty to hire some fresh killers, but until the Met can do their job and obtain new CCTV footage I've got nothing to go on. And that could take some time, knowing them. These murders are almost daily, John. There's innocent children dying, and I'm the one person who could actually help, incapacitated by incompetence on the part of this country's law enforcers."

Wound up, Sherlock scrubs his hands through his hair in frustration, and looks at John to gauge his reaction. The frown creasing the man's features demonstrates the expected objections to his criticisms of the police force, but Sherlock's more interested in the glint in his eyes. The expression brings a surge of indignation.

"Stop looking _pleased_ about my caring!" Sherlock orders him, kicking him under the table.

"I'm not," the doctor retorts, but the smile emerging contradicts his statement, and only causes Sherlock's chagrin to grow.

"Don't lie to me," the detective tells him, a little more aggressively than he'd intended. He gets up, deliberately plucking John's laptop from the table in favour to his own. Triumphant, he sweeps from the room, with only a passing: "you're shocking at it anyway!" by way of acknowledgement.

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3am comes and goes. Sherlock sits on his bed, his back against the wall, long legs drawn up to his chest. He's got his violin clasped in his hands, and every few seconds pale fingers move deftly to pluck the strings. The melody itself is haunting, even played carelessly by an absent-minded detective. It moves effortlessly from the quiet to the exciting. Played with the aid of a bow, the music would be quite flawless.

Sherlock's eyes are unfocussed as he plays, his mind offering him suggestion upon suggestion as to where he should begin his search for the consulting criminal – and discarding each as quickly as they emerge. They were all too pointless, too obvious… too unoriginal.

Also, watching the shadows creep towards his feet, it occurs to him that Moriarty was probably the man who deserved to be considered his arch-enemy. Mycroft was more an irritation than a threat.

He's cold by now, not having moved for hours. The pale skin poking from his pyjamas is icy to the touch, and his bare feet are tinged with purple. Goosebumps run up and down his arms, but he doesn't notice. His mind is fixed intently on its own workings, and on the puzzle that he had to solve.

The minimal effect of the nicotine patches has long worn out, and it's done nothing for his concentration. His statuesque exterior hides the panic escalating in his mind, the terror at the newfound emotions of the past few months. Sitting on top of his covers, shivering, Sherlock experiences something resembling guilt. His mind begins to consider the lives that would have been saved, the pure torture of being burnt to death that might have been avoided, if he had spotted what he'd clearly still missed – and the lives that could still be saved, the pain avoided, were he to discover it now. He hates the emotional investment he seems to have unwittingly developed with this case, and worse, a solution still seems far off. His stomach churns at the idea of those children _burning_…

The flat is completely silent. It's only then that Sherlock recognises he's stopped playing his violin. Sighing, he discards it on top of his covers, and walks through to the lounge to clear his head. It's almost precisely as he last saw it, except that the TV remotes have been moved from the sofa to the arm of the chair. There's a pile of books that have been rearranged too: presumably after John knocked into them, and spilled the tea onto the now freshly scrubbed carpet about a foot away.

Strangely, the deductions that came so naturally seem unimportant now: what use was observing the actions of his flatmate, if he couldn't stop people dying?

The clock on the mantelpiece reads ten to four.

The mood he was in, it was never going to be a good idea to stray into the kitchen. He does so anyway, padding silently in bare feet, his eyes blinking rapidly in the glare from the streetlight outside. He can hear John snoring faintly upstairs, and knows he's safe.

The whole process is a rather desperate scramble. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears; his fingers fumble on the lid of the margarine tub: candle, powder, acid, water…tip the solution in so _slowly_, then a welcome sting and…oh God, he'd needed that.

Release.

When John staggers sleepily down at half six Sherlock's still smiling. He's investigated several rather unlikely ideas of Moriarty's whereabouts online…and whilst this exercise had wielded no results, he's able to look at the situation more positively: it was a simple process of elimination. It was a large undertaking, yes, but with his abilities it was not impossible – and surely a few more child murders were worth it if Moriarty was captured.

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By mid-morning, the effects have completely worn off, leaving behind an extremely irritable detective. Worried, angry – his nerves are stretched to breaking point.

"How difficult can it be to wheel out a few corpses?" he snarls at Molly. He's well aware he's being unreasonable and insensitive, but she is being incompetent, so they are more than square.

Molly looks like she's on the verge of tears. Again. Her lower lip trembles.

"It's not that simple!" she exclaims. The timid annoyance in her voice grates on Sherlock's battered nerves.

"Molly." Sherlock says, fighting to keep his voice calm. "I need to compare all the dead children. Therefore, one would assume it was blindingly obvious that I wanted to look at _all_ of them…them, Molly! In the plural!"

He watches her, teeth clamped together. She opens her mouth several times, as if to contradict him, but swallows, apparently deciding against it. One further chew of her lip, and she takes a step backwards, eyes wide like a frightened rabbit. It takes some restraint on Sherlock's part not to utter an exasperated 'Hallelujah.'

"Fine!" she agrees shrilly, blinking hard, and scurrying from the room.

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The next few hours are a blur of cab rides, taking samples, bickering with Lestrade over his 'attitude', and quick-fire texts to keep John informed.

_Police incompetent. Plenty of evidence. SH._

_Damn! Even the evidence they missed points to Jenkins. This is thorough in the extreme. SH._

_Lestrade has requested you keep me on a leash. Would advise against it. SH._

_Hardly my fault his suggestions are ridiculous. SH._

_Do you think Moriarty would repeat himself? Debating whether to further investigate school staff. SH._

_A reply to indicate you're still alive would be appreciated. SH._

He continues relaying observations to John for some time, until he gets a message, not from John, but sent from an unknown number. He guesses the sender easily, and sighs.

_Can you please stop texting John at work. _

Resisting the urge to send her back a petulant 'No.' and instruction regarding the use of question marks, Sherlock stows his phone in his coat, fixing his eyes instead on the back of the cabbie's head.

By the time he clambers out of the taxi and pays the man, by the entrance to Bart's, he is not only irritable from the re-emerging feelings of worry and tension, but his head is also pounding painfully. He can feel a thin film of sweat on his forehead too, and wipes it away with the back of his hand. It's a relief to settle himself down in the lab, and set about working through his samples from the crime scenes. He's hardly expecting anything new now, but it's reassuring to properly examine everything himself, so he can be certain that no shortcuts have been taken, every eventuality considered.

As seven o clock crawls closer, Sherlock gathers up his notes and results, and heads home. He feels terrible by now. The testing might have helped put him at ease, but the throbbing of his head is becoming unbearable, and he feels feverish.

By the time he stumbles in the door of the flat he feels positively sick. His hair is sticking to the sweat running down his forehead, he's shaking violently, and there is little he wouldn't sacrifice to rid himself of the splitting headache.

Taking deep breaths, he makes his way to the bathroom, leaning his burning forehead on the cool tiles, and letting out a moan of relief. The relief is short-lived. The room begins to spin around him, and still shaking, he stumbles to sit on the edge of the bath. He takes deep, ragged breaths and squeezes both eyes shut.

"Sherlock?"

Even the gentle concern of John Watson's voice causes a violent stab of pain through his head, and he groans by way of answer. Faintly, he can make out the man's silhouette in the doorway to the room.

"You look awful," John observes, lowering his voice as Sherlock winces violently and continues to tremble.

"I feel sick," Sherlock states, shortly.

"You look sick," John concurs. There's a pause, and Sherlock manages to raise his head to look at his flatmate. Despite his grey pallor that he can see reflected in the mirror, Sherlock realises that John is not shying away. In fact, he moves from his position in the doorway and joins him on the edge of the bath. Experimentally, Sherlock rests his head on the other man's shoulder. The warmth that rushes through him glorious.

"You're warm," Sherlock informs him, shivering violently. John says nothing, just offers an arm around the detective's shoulders.

He still feels awful, but John's warmth helps: Sherlock burrows gratefully into the crook of his neck, and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing of his head and the nausea, and just concentrate on the comfort of his flatmate. He feels his eyelids droop, and allows them to do so, listening to the pulse in John's neck.

When he wakes, the nausea has intensified. He lurches away from John in panic, and throws up violently. Even then the other man doesn't leave, sitting steadfastly on the edge of the bath as the detective leans over the toilet.

"When did this start?" he asks, as Sherlock takes deep, shaking breaths. "You seemed fine this morning."

"Afternoon," he mumbles, embarrassed.

"I suppose it could be a 24 hour thing," the doctor suggests, frowning. Sherlock watches his eyes flick over him, and feels ashamed. He knew both the cause and the cure, and realises for the first time that he couldn't take John's disappointment, not on top of the burning children.

"Why are you still here?" he asks instead, peering at John with as much curiosity as he could muster from his position on the floor of the bathroom.

"Sarah's annoyed at me," John tells him, smiling. "And there's nothing on TV."

They glance at each, and Sherlock manages a watery smile to match John's. Interestingly, he discovers that he experiences the same warmth from John's words as he derived from sitting directly beside the man.


	9. Chapter 9

**Filming for Sherlock series 2 finished yesterday :D I am officially excited! Anyway, here's the new chapter.**

**Reviews very much appreciated: positive or negative, I'll take them! :)**

**Also, I feel the need to apologise for the language later on, even though the rating really does account for that :) Enjoy.**

John twirls his pen absently between his fingers, waiting for his next patient. She was due in five minutes, but the short lull in the storm was sending his nerves jangling. Sherlock hadn't looked one hundred per cent when he'd left Baker Street that morning: he'd been in a rather heightened state of enthusiasm, and after the vomiting the day before, John was a little worried. He'd never seen Sherlock ill, and recently his mood had been all over the place: swinging dangerously from almost-jubilation, to the kind of black mood where every movement irritated him, and a scowl was the best reaction you could hope for to anything. John worried that the case was affecting him more than previous ones had, and that Sherlock was finding the shift in perspective hard to cope with. Although, that still wouldn't explain the throwing up, and he'd looked absolutely dreadful the previous night.

Trying not to remember Sherlock's sweaty, white pallor, John checks his phone and waits quietly, steering his thoughts away from Sherlock Holmes and tiny burnt corpses. He focusses on his own breathing, and tries to be interested in the fact that it was a little more irregular than normal, and not speculate about the reason.

He's distracted as his patient enters the room, and for the minutes that she stays Sherlock and the case are forgotten. John is well practised at switching off his personal problems in the presence of a patient, so much so that they drift into unimportance next to the job of helping a person to recover. It's a welcome respite, but the fear crawls back as the woman leaves. She thanks him, and he gets up to hold the door for her, but as soon as it slams shut he's left with only his own thoughts for company.

There's something nagging at the back of his mind, the notion that there's something that he's missed, something related to Sherlock, something _important._

The door creaks open again, and this time it's not a patient, it's Sarah. He's grateful for the company, and nods his head towards an empty chair wordlessly.

"Hey," he says softly, not sure she's entirely forgiven him for the walking out episode yet. She doesn't say anything, just bites her lip hesitantly. John finds his eyes following the movement. It's nice, he ponders, that he's actually able to sit in a room with a nice girl he likes a lot, and not be fixated on murder and sociopathic flatmates. The breath of normality is a relief, and his lips curve into a smile.

"I don't suppose you want to go for a drink after work?" he asks sheepishly, his hand automatically rising to rub the back of his neck, as he did when apprehensive. "As…a kind of apology. For things."

She flashes him a real smile then, and gets up from her seat.

"I look forward to it," she tells him, eyes sparkling as they flick over his face.

She leaves, and John exhales, letting a small smile crinkle the corners of his eyes.

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The pub is a particularly nice one. It's not crowded enough to be rowdy, but there's a good scattering of people, providing a pleasant background noise of chatter and laughter: echoing off the polished wood. John and Sarah walk in hand in hand, and make their way slowly to the bar. It's nice not to be in a rush for once, to not have to run on pure adrenaline, to not feel the weight of _real human lives_ in their hands.

The bartender, a middle-aged man with only a sprinkling of sandy hair left on his head, gets them their drinks, and the pair find a nice table in the very corner of the pub. The conversation is nice: ranging from exasperating patients to shared interests in movies…and it is certainly very nice to be able to have a mundane conversation without having your intellect challenged.

John's watches Sarah laughing; the carefree noise a welcome oasis in the horror that's surrounded him for months. He's just about to offer her another drink, when a sharp 'ping' catches his attention.

His eyes flick to the pocket of his coat on instinct, and Sarah, catching the reflex, just nods with a smile.

"Excuse me," he says, drawing the phone from his pocket and clearing his throat uncomfortably, wishing he'd ignored the noise.

_Come home immediately. Help needed urgently. Can't wait. SH._

John stares at the screen, weighing up the likelihood of whatever Sherlock wanted actually being urgent. He's undecided: the man's track record was against him, but then again …this case was particularly nasty. They both had significantly more invested in this one.

"I've got to go," he hears himself say; and watches himself, almost detached, get up from the table, hears his chair scrape on the floor. Even as his feet carry him towards the exit, he's still unaware of consciously making a decision. He hears hurried footsteps behind him, and turns to see Sarah. Feet from the door, the air from outside blows back her hair as two more people enter.

"John?"

She looks any number of emotions: confused, hurt…and while it's a refreshing change from Sherlock's guarded surliness, it's not enough. There's still that compelling force to help.

"I've got to," he repeats, a little ashamed of the pleading quality to his voice, imploring her to understand.

"Oh, well…if it's that important." Her voice is growing colder, there's irony in her words. "I suppose I can't help."

"Sarah…I'm sorry – " he takes a few more steps towards the door. "Look, I – it's…"

He can't quite find the right words.

"It's fine," she tells him, folding her arms. "Go on."

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Walking through the door of the flat, John doesn't immediately see the supposed sense of urgency that Sherlock mentioned. The detective himself is lying in his usual manner on the sofa: eyes shut, fingers pressed regally together beneath his chin. The peaceful scene evokes a stab of irritation in the doctor.

"You had better have a bloody good reason for calling me here," he says into the silence, glaring at the frozen detective. "I swear to God, if all you want is your phone passed, then I'm going to – "

"Relax, John," Sherlock interjects – and is it John's imagination that his annunciation is off? - "Judging by past observation, she'll forgive you. Again."

John's takes a steadying breath. He's calm, but the blasé attitude causes a jab of annoyance: it's that assuming arrogance, the way Sherlock knew that he could make him come running with no good reason. John's got half a mind to walk straight out, and attempt to patch things up with Sarah. She was a bloody saint, which was more than could be said for the _statue_ currently taking up residence on the couch.

"Right," he says, gnawing his lip hesitantly. "I'm here. What do you want help with?"

The speed at which Sherlock sits up is frightening. His eyes fly open, glinting with something that might have been manic enthusiasm. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and his hair is sticking up in all directions, presumably from being violated during the thinking process. Actually, peering irritably at the detective's features, there's something in Sherlock's face that is off.

"I need you to run an errand for me," Sherlock says, his voice bored. "If you don't mind."

He flashes a grin. John watches him dubiously, and doesn't respond.

"Obviously, a good start in finding Moriarty would be to discover where the drugs in 'Jay's Gardening Store' are sourced. It's not a concrete aid, per se, but it might give us some kind of geographical clue as to where to start looking. As such, I need details on significant illegal drug imports, and I need you to speak to Mycroft."

John stares. Sherlock looks at him likewise, but his gaze isn't as steady as usual.

"The government know about importers of illegal drugs?" John asks, incredulous. "Why don't they stop them?"

"The majority are 'discovered', John, but think about the impact complete stemming of the trade would have on the addicts. There are people who would literally do anything to get their hands on them." Sherlock pauses, and gives a breathless, excited grin. "Bribery in a struggling economy goes a long way too."

The explanation doesn't quite placate the doctor, but he keeps quiet. Mycroft was probably more the man to have this debate with anyway.

Instead, he watches Sherlock send a text, scratching the back of his head thoughtfully.

"You want me to go now?"

"Please," Sherlock replies, not looking up from the screen.

John stands, feeling foolish for a few seconds. Then, in the absence of further elaboration on the part of the detective, he scans an eye over the flat, considering what he'd need. His eye is caught by the stack of photos teetering on the edge of the kitchen table. Flipping through them, he finds the rather ill-lit picture of the bags in the back of the store and pockets it.

That done, he turns to leave, but not before catching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. He sees the lopsided smile, and the limbs draped limply over the sofa, and something clicks.

The realisation hits him with considerable force: the realisation of ignoring all the signs, of turning his back on them and _God_ he was so, so stupid. He'd ignored that look in Sherlock's eyes, the frightening mood swings: from delirious to downtrodden in minutes, he'd ignored the stumbles, the throwing up, hell – he'd even ignored the falling down the stairs.

His mind is screaming, and the fact that Sherlock hasn't noticed should tell him something too, because it was so obvious, all along. He can see, now, that he ignored it all because he simply wasn't looking for it: despite the man's past, he'd never believed it of him. He'd attributed the odd behaviour to being thrown off by the disturbing case, and somehow his mind had twisted the events to fit.

John looks over at his flatmate, and there's a pain in his chest that twinges horribly.

"Sherlock," he breathes, not sure whether he's concerned or sad, or angry, even. He feels as though the floor's been snatched from beneath him, and he collapses into the armchair.

Sherlock looks up at that, and John's well aware that he knows.

"Yes John?" the detective says. His innocent performance is impeccable, but John can see through the front now.

"I…"

"Mycroft is that way," Sherlock informs him, pointing a long pale finger towards the door, and huffing. It takes a moment, but John rises from the chair. He can feel himself shaking a little. Instead of going towards the door, he moves towards his flatmate. He can feel the detective's eyes on him, but doesn't look at him until they're less than a foot apart, not until he's knelt on the floor, so that their faces are level.

Slowly and deliberately, John extends his hand. When it's centimetres from the other man's wrist, he moves his eyes upwards to look at him. Sherlock blinks.

He switches his attention back to their arms, reaching the final few centimetres to grasp Sherlock's wrist. The detective doesn't struggle, but John can feel the tension running up and down his arm.

His eyes move up the limb towards the rolled shirt sleeve, a process that is painfully and deliberately slow.

It's like he wants Sherlock to snatch it away, deny it, and he can just believe him like always.

No, he _really _wants that.

Sherlock doesn't, and John has no choice. He moves his eyes the last few inches to the crook of Sherlock's arm, and looks. Just visible, as he expected, are a few tiny pin-pricks in the pale skin. Unsure of how to proceed, John swallows, presses his lips together, and avoids Sherlock's gaze, still grasping the man's wrist tightly in his fingers.

"Problem?" Sherlock asks quietly. John becomes aware of his grip on the man's arm, and lets go hastily, straightening himself up.

"No," he lies, shaking his head. He moistens his lower lip with his tongue and swallows again. "Actually, yes."

He still can't bring himself to look at Sherlock. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock says nothing.

"Why?" John asks eventually.

"I think you're overreacting again, John."

"I am _not _overreacting, Sherlock!" he retorts. "It is not overreacting to be mildly concerned that my flatmate is taking illegal drugs!"

Sherlock stares at him. The expression is deliberately provocative, and the irritation from earlier flares back up, except worse.

"It is not overreacting, actually, to be extremely concerned about it! And you haven't answered my question, either."

Sherlock watches him, tight lipped, from his stance on the sofa.

"It helps me think," he says. His tone is unapologetic.

"That's an excuse for the nicotine patches, _Sherlock_, not for heroin."

They stare at each other, eyes hostile, for a good minute. John is well aware that they are both too stubborn to give in, but on this occasion he is right, and Sherlock is unequivocally, entirely and completely, utterly wrong. On every single level.

The detective makes to get up, and John's eyes narrow, instantly suspicious. They narrow still further as the taller man walks into the kitchen. His eyes flick between him and that margarine tub.

Which is when Sherlock loses it. It's so unlike him that John stares.

"What precisely are you expecting me to do?" he snaps, dishes crashing into the sink as he pulls a mug roughly from the centre of a pile on the drainer. One plate slips to the floor and smashes at his feet, but Sherlock doesn't so much as flinch.

"I wonder," John snarls back, tired of Sherlock's constant assumption that he and he alone was right.

Sherlock slams the mug onto the counter so hard John sees a crack run up the side of it.

"Lay off."

"I will not!" John retorts, losing his own temper. He's surprised he retained it for so long. "I will not stand back and pretend everything is okay while you slowly kill yourself. I will not let another person I love destroy themselves. I won't, Sherlock. I _can't_."

Sherlock sniffs. His eyebrows disappear into his hair in scepticism.

"Oh, so this is about Harry," he sneers. "You think if you'd done something sooner, she wouldn't have become an alcoholic."

John gapes at the sheer stupidity of the man, and fights the urge to punch him.

"This has nothing to with Harry!" he shouts. The colour builds in his face as he gets more and more worked up. "This is to do with you being a bloody idiot and taking god damn fucking heroin, Sherlock Holmes, and don't you dare try and twist that."

John can hear his heart pounding in his ears, and clenches both his fists by his sides, fighting to stay calm. Angry, he was no use to Sherlock. Sherlock steps towards him, so their noses are inches apart.

"Really?" he asks softly, his glare cold. "Are you sure this isn't just an attempt to redeem yourself, after what you didn't do for your sister?"

"Positive," he manages, through gritted teeth. He has to stop then; he can feel himself shaking with anger. He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his tone is quite different.

"For God's sake, let me help you."

He's ashamed to hear the pleading in his own voice.

"I don't want you to," Sherlock replies, and John realises that their disagreement has evolved from shouting to voices that are low and dangerous and vindictive. He doesn't like it. "I don't want your help."

"You bloody need it."

Sherlock takes a step back. His head is drawn up, his chin out: this is Sherlock when he's defiant and angry, and John's not sure he wants to be on the receiving end of that.

"I never asked for or wanted it," Sherlock states. His voice is hard and unfeeling, the words designed to cut right through the doctor before him. The fresh stab in John's chest is testimony to that, but he grits his teeth and stands his ground.

"Well that's odd," he comments. "Considering that you have never refused my help, even when you _didn't _need it."

"I will not be the subject of your attempt to redeem yourself for past mistakes."

"Do you even know how wrong you are?"

"I'm not wrong."

"Sherlock! I _cannot_ let you do this to yourself. Do you bloody understand?"

They're nose to nose again, both having stepped forward in anger, glaring fiercely.

"At least I understand the shortfalls in emotional investment in others. Next time you meet someone who openly admits to being sociopathic, John, don't bother."

"So taking illegal drugs to drown out the fact that you _care_ is better, is it?"

Sherlock stares at him, and John can tell that he's struck a nerve, and ploughs on.

"Caring about tortured and murdered children isn't a flaw, Sherlock Holmes."

"If it hinders my ability to save them, then I would beg to disagree."

"Grow up."

He turns to leave, completely through with Sherlock. Halfway to the door he remembers something, and turns back to snatch the margarine tub from the counter, daring Sherlock with his eyes to try and stop him. Sherlock merely snarls at him, one of his hands clenched on the wood of the table.

"Don't fool yourself into thinking I need you, _or_ your so-called 'guidance'."

The door slams with a shattering finality.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

John goes to Sarah's out of habit, although it's little surprise when she turns him away. He's left standing in the glow of her front light, and wondering how he managed to lose two friends in one night, when all he did was try and help. The thought leaves him down heartened, and as he walks away from Sarah's, his hands are buried deep in his pockets, his head bowed.

He's beginning to see the benefit in simply not caring about anything.

John fully intends to mooch around London that night, let his legs carry him wherever, just try and clear his head, and to rid himself of the horrible, echoing remnants of Sherlock's last stab at him: _'don't fool yourself into thinking I need you.'_

He's so buried inside his own head, that he doesn't notice the sleek, black car that draws up beside him until it stops entirely, and he realises that the throb of the engines he'd subconsciously registered has fallen away.

It doesn't even take thought to decide to clamber inside. Even were this someone other than the elder of the Holmes', he was just glad of something to draw him from the mantra of negativity in his mind. He'd love to have a crack at Moriarty, to vent some of his anger at Sherlock.

Anthea's presence seems to confirm Mycroft's hand. He doesn't bother trying to engage her in conversation, just sits stiffly in his seat, staring straight ahead.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"I suppose you know already," John comments, watching Mycroft across his desk. He hasn't the energy for politeness. "Why the bloody hell didn't you do something?"

Mycroft's stare turns reproving at his language and manner, but the argument with Sherlock has left him disinclined to care. He doesn't bother with an apology. Mycroft seems less intimidating when things seemed already hopeless.

"Sherlock has always been resilient to my assistance," the man states, one hand stroking the handle of the umbrella stashed beside his chair. "I was rather hoping he'd prove more responsive to you."

"Why would he?" John asks. "I barely know him. Known him for less than a year."

Mycroft Holmes surveys him with his steely gaze, apparently analysing the shortness of John's responses.

"You've rather lost your spirit," he states, with the air of one commenting on the weather.

"It's been a bad day."

"Elaborate."

John looks up at the man in disbelief.

"You already know about the argument," John tells him. "That's why I'm here."

"I've read the transcript, certainly. You're here because I don't want Moriarty catching you and using you against my brother again. It would be tediously repetitive, but unfortunately still effective."

He heaves a sigh. His despair at unoriginal criminals reminds John of Sherlock, and now that his anger and hurt has begun to subside, he's able to see the resemblance with something that's almost a smile.

"I have a question for you," he says. Mycroft smiles, the very edges of his mouth tilting upwards. It was a far cry from the excited smiles of his brother, and John notes how he's begun to compare them again, with every comparison in Sherlock's favour.

"I thought you might."

John almost laughs then. It's nice to know he's still got the capacity for that.

"Can you give the information, then?" the doctor asks.

"Dr Watson, I have better things to do with my day than document my brother's every word."

John shifts in his seat and clears his throat.

"Sherlock would like details of importers of class A drugs." John pauses, the question on the tip of his tongue. "Why don't you do anything to stop them?"

Mycroft doesn't answer immediately; he's rummaging busily in his desk draws. He takes out a thick, battered file. It's bound in peeling cardboard, and held together with string, and Mycroft Holmes lifts the thing from the draw and places it delicately on the table. His expression resembles that of a person required to plunge their hands into a particularly nasty substance.

"I had this sent to the office about half an hour ago," he says, blatantly ignoring John's question.

"And what do I do about Sherlock?" John asks, feeling a note of desperation creeping into his voice. He meets Mycroft's eyes warily, very aware of the man's gaze.

Mycroft stands up. He towers over John now, and looks down on him. His expression is not hostile, but it is severe.

"Sherlock particularly enjoys disobeying me," Mycroft states, his gaze shifting to a spot above John's head. He begins to walk around the desk, finishing beside the doctor, his head skewed to the side to survey him. "Yet I was able to help dissuade him from addiction the first time. I should imagine a person he holds in regard would be able to help him far more readily."

He sweeps from the room, leaving John to gingerly pick up the mass of papers from his desk, and reflect how he became responsible for fulfilling the wishes of two Holmes' with contrasting viewpoints.

But for once, he was doing this Mycroft's way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Yes, into double-digit chapters! :) **

**Hope everyone enjoys! Reviews are highly motivating, just so as you know :P**

Sherlock hears John come home at around eleven. He doesn't come into the main part of the flat, just heads straight up to his room...but the tread on the stairs does not indicate anger. It's steady, and Sherlock hears the slight pause outside the door, before the doctor decides to continue up to his own bedroom. So, frustrated but not defeated, which presumably meant he'd try a fresh assault on Sherlock's newly awakened habits tomorrow. The detective's brow creases into a frown, and he shoves his laptop off his knees, so that it lands with a soft thump on the sofa.

He waits for an hour, listening to John trying to get comfortable: drifting off and jerking back awake, until he finally manages to fall asleep on his right side, curled up slightly to the right of the centre of the bed. Only when Sherlock is certain of the deep breathing signifying his flatmate to be unconscious does he move. In socks, his tread is close to silent; padding across the carpet to the door, and clambering up the stairs with only the faintest whisper of the fabric on the structure betraying his presence.

John's door is more tricky: Sherlock is well aware that it creaks, he hears it every night as the other man retreats upstairs to bed. The noise, coupled with John's unpredictable nightmares – which have only got worse since this case started – and the fact that he only fell asleep very recently, causes Sherlock to be extremely wary as he pushes open the door. He winces as he hears metal scrape on metal, and makes a mental note to oil the hinges when he had a passing moment.

Or, possibly convince Anderson to do it by bribing him with Donovan...

Either way, he was very sure that John would not be impressed if he woke in the middle of the night to find Sherlock invading his room.

Holding the door open with one foot, Sherlock peers into the gloom. The little numbers on John's alarm clock are distracting: they shine through the blackness, making the whole room seem darker in comparison to their luminance. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock spots a large dark shape beside the clock, and smiles.

John didn't have a huge range of possessions, and those he did have were neatly stowed in draws and the small wardrobe. Therefore, this was not his…or it was at least something he planned on passing on at some point – conclusion: it was the file on drug imports he'd got from Mycroft. Dependable, even when angry. Sherlock smiles.

He manages to grab the file without relinquishing his foot as a door-stop, but as he does so, something occurs to him. If John had seen Mycroft…well, there was an excellent chance that his elder brother had attempted to persuade the doctor to redouble his efforts regarding 'helping' him. John's stubbornness with Mycroft's patronage was not a combination Sherlock wanted to endure. With the file clutched to his chest, Sherlock abandons his efforts to be quiet, and stomps down the stairs in disgust.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When John stumbles downstairs that morning, his hair ruffled from sleep and sporting the usual black circles beneath his eyes, Sherlock doesn't move. He's not feeling brilliant: the first tell-tale withdrawal signs of a very sore head beginning to emerge in the sunlight. He's also a little unsure of how to proceed – he's well aware that he was less than civil the previous night, and in the absence of the possibility of asking John for advice on the matter, he simply watches his flatmate from across the room.

"D'you want some?" John asks, indicating the toaster that he was standing next to. Sherlock notes his voice is less expectant than usual.

"No."

The response, short and tetchy, is met with a slight shrugging of the shoulders, and a small sigh. Interesting. Sherlock continues to watch John, his eyes flicking from him to his laptop every few seconds.

"Are you sure?" he hears his flatmate ask. "You can't just live on caffeine."

John's voice trails off at the end of his sentence, apparently regretfully. Oh, so drugs were still a tender subject, were they?

"I've managed so far," Sherlock points out, tapping at the keyboard.

He hears John inhale, and waits for the response. Conversations this cagey were usually reserved for Mycroft.

"That's true," John agrees. He drums his knuckles on the counter, waiting for the toast.

"But maybe you're right," Sherlock suggests. He chuckles at the other man's startled expression.

"No," the doctor tells him firmly. "Caffeine's fine. Good, actually."

Sherlock surveys him, letting his lips curve into a slow smile. John is momentarily distracted by the emergence of the toast, and while he scrapes the butter across it, Sherlock gets up, swinging his legs off the sofa. He scrubs his hands through his hair once, and meanders over to his flatmate.

"Do you need anything?"

John starts, looking up at him through a mouthful of toast. He swallows.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said: 'do you need anything?' I'm going out and I thought you might like me to pick up the groceries."

John takes another bite of toast, chews, and deigns to answer.

"Really?"

"Really."

Sherlock watches his flatmate analyse him. It really was very amusing watching ordinary people try to work anything out: you could see their brains struggling, see every stage of their reasoning clearly in their faces. Gratitude, suspicion, confusion.

"Why?"

And then they'd just ask for an explanation anyway…

"I have to pick up some things I need," Sherlock explains patiently. "I thought it was considerate to offer to get anything else we needed."

"Teabags would be good," John admits, and Sherlock is fascinated by the sheepish quality to his voice. "And sugar, considering it's the only thing keeping you alive at the moment."

His eyes rake over Sherlock's skinny frame in that irritating, diagnostic fashion, and Sherlock scowls at him. He makes to leave, but a hand on his arm stops him.

"Do you want h – " John stumbles over the word, and Sherlock huffs impatiently. "Do you want a hand later? With the case."

Sherlock disappears briefly to fetch his coat, and he can feel the tension radiating off the doctor as he waits for his verdict. The detective shrugs his coat on, and fastens his scarf securely. That done, he flicks his eyes upwards to look at John.

"That would be tolerable," he concurs, sweeping from the flat.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The first stop Sherlock makes is at one of his old haunts. It's a rather dingy alleyway around the back of a disused warehouse. The roof of the building is disintegrating, and the path itself is littered with shards of tile and brick, and sodden wood.

It's the kind of place that John would sarcastically refer to as 'a nice part of town', and although the location was hardly idyllic, Sherlock quite likes it. It's interesting: it's not the stark white, _boring_ walls of the Yard, or John's clinic – it's got mayhem and wrongdoing engraved in it. There's graffiti and what might once have even been bloodstains: cracks and dents, and fist shaped holes in the fence. It's a nod back to his past, and although he's always the last man to succumb to nostalgia, he's sick of constantly being prodded away from it by Mycroft. It's like it's a dirty little secret, ashes swept under the rug.

Sherlock's sharp eyes quickly spot the figure disappearing around the end of the warehouse, the tail end of their jacket disappearing past the disintegrating brick of the building. He stands still for a moment, his grey eyes narrowing, and darting sideways, as he listens intently to the disappearing footsteps.

He moves very suddenly, stalking down the alley after the figure. There's a purpose to his step, not dissimilar to how he moves after disappearing from a crime scene to investigate a sudden realisation. Pale eyes stay narrowed, and the wind tugs at his hair. His face is thrown into focus: pale even for him, cheekbones even more prominent than usual through his neglect of food. He pulls on the lapels of his coat to draw the garment closer to him, and quickens his stride.

To any onlooker, he would appear to be walking in a straight line, possibly heading for the main road. The man he might have been following has certainly long vanished. However, he veers suddenly, disappearing through a doorway gouged into the crumbling wall of the warehouse.

The man has not vanished; he's standing inside.

As Sherlock approaches the figure, his lips twitch upwards once, dropping back quickly into their usual suspicious set. His eyelids relax around the grey irises, transforming them from wary slits to something more eager.

He feels his heart rate increase marginally. Looking around the room, watching the water run down the walls encrusted already with algae and moss and inhaling the dust dropping from the ceiling, he feels an enormous sense of relief.

The heroin, he reflects, has been incredibly effective. Taken first to relieve his anxiety and terror so he could concentrate on saving those children, it's now helping in a whole different capacity. Obtaining it has become the priority in his brain, the case taking second place. Now he's got something he wants more, and that can only be a good thing. Perspective and distance were essential to looking at a crime effectively. It was a shame John couldn't understand that.

The man about five feet away from him is a drug dealer – obviously – but he's not one related to the case. Sherlock's lost the reasons why he should go to those: the drugs were merely a detail, security, to ensure he got drawn into this case. He'd rather go to those he trusted, to a degree at least.

Within half an hour he's back home, and blissfully high. The teabags are long forgotten.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

John doesn't go to work when he leaves 221B. He heads instead for a nearby park, sits down on one of the benches, and thinks. He's incredibly unsure of how to deal with Sherlock. He was relatively well versed in the theory of dealing with drug addicts, but he knows that doesn't necessarily add up to being any good in practice, and this was _Sherlock. _John was prepared to bet he was significantly more stubborn than your common heroin addict.

Also, he was worried about Moriarty. Sherlock couldn't be at his best at the moment, and an encounter now would be very bad news, he was sure. Accordingly, John had taken to carrying his gun with him everywhere. He didn't fancy getting arrested for it, but Moriarty was not immune to bullets, and if John saw him first, then he was getting one buried in his skull. If Sherlock didn't like it…well, tough.

It was also very frustrating for him that he was of very little use in the actual process of solving the case, except in the capacity of being Sherlock's assistant. He was a good shot, and he could normally stop the detective from insulting people, but that was bloody it.

John watches the leaves pitching on the trees bordering the park, and grits his teeth. The city is nowhere close to its usual vibrancy: people tended to hurry between stores, always looking over their shoulders, and the amount of kids roaming the streets had dropped massively. Those out were always accompanied by nervous-looking parents, clutching their hands like a lifeline. People were scared, absolutely terrified. Nobody wanted their children taken from them, especially in this way. Even school playgrounds were deserted: allowing the children outside was too much of a risk for the schools.

He drums his hands on his legs, and tries to think like Sherlock. It comes to no avail, and he's unable to stop a growl of frustration escaping his lips.

He's got one idea. Sherlock's going to hate him, but if it saves children, if it saves him, John's willing to do it. It also feels a lot like giving up, but he supposes he can take the dent to his pride.

Sighing, John gets up, brushes the grime off the bench from his trousers, and heads for the road to find a cab.

It's rare he's been to Scotland Yard without the detective beside him, shouting out instructions and insults. He licks his lips apprehensively, and grimaces at the weight of the gun in his pocket. This was the worst idea he'd had in a while: walking into the headquarters of the Metropolitan police carrying a gun. He sincerely hopes the lump in his jacket is not too prominent.

Sally Donovan's eyes follow him all the way to the door of Lestrade's office. He can almost hear the questions formulating in her mind, the insults aimed at Sherlock and his absence. He's very glad she doesn't voice them, and sticks both hands in his pockets as he waits.

Restless, he listens to the tapping of keyboards, and drums one foot on the ground nervously.

"John." Lestrade's face appears around the door, rousing him from his thoughts. He sounds surprised, but he widens the door to admit the doctor. John takes the seat offered, and wonders where to start.

"This is about the case, I presume," the DI states, taking his own seat. "Coffee?"

"Kind of," John answers, shaking his head to the offer. "It's about Sherlock, actually."

Lestrade's eyebrows shift upwards good-naturedly.

"Fire away."

"You knew him when he was an addict. Quite well?"

"Well, yes," Lestrade admits, looking confused. "John, I don't see…"

"Let's imagine I know someone who's in a similar situation," he interrupts, his voice forceful and blunt. "Any advice?"

Lestrade's brow furrows. John's unsure if it's due to the unexpected request, or the directness of tone that's bordering on rudeness.

"I'm really not sure I'm the person to consult."

"Let's imagine it really is Sherlock."

"Well if it's not…"

The doctor thinks he does well to restrain himself from a Sherlock-like scoff.

"It is." John tells him, losing his temper a bit. "How direct do I need to be?"

He breathes in, re-evaluates his last words, and sighs.

"Sorry."

The DI watches him. He looks very tired; his eyes bloodshot, his face pale. The way his eyelids droop suggest sleepless nights. John feels bad for his momentary loss of temper.

"Please tell me you're joking," Lestrade says. There's definitely a sense of pleading in his tone.

"Trust me, I wish I was."

The two men contemplate each other over the desk. Lestrade sighs, but seems to understand what the doctor's asking of him.

"He won't forgive you."

John laughs then. It was true, he knew it as well as Lestrade, but somehow hearing it out loud confirmed it…and it was comical, it really was. Sherlock was genuinely the most ridiculous person he'd ever met.

"I know," he confirms, clenching his fists in his lap, so that the other man couldn't see.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lounging on the sofa, Sherlock lets his eyes drift lazily to Mycroft's file. Judging by the state of it, it contained information stretching at least 20 years back, and his brain briefly questions why it had never been converted into digital form…but no, that would be too easy for hackers to reveal what the government were hiding.

He supposes he should look at it, but his limbs are wonderfully heavy, and it seems like too much effort to move the few feet to fetch it. The children dying really were only a tiny proportion of the world's population of youngsters. More were born every second, more died every second: what was so important about saving the lives of this tiny group of London schoolchildren? What made them more worthy of his time than those dying in Africa and other Third World countries? Sherlock yawns, pushes his fringe from his forehead, and lets his eyes dart back and forth over the old cardboard.

With a faint noise in his throat, the detective pushes himself from the upholstery, and reaches to grasp the file. It's heavy, several inches thick, and drops dust on the black of his suit. He frowns, and returns to his seat.

Maybe it was only the possibility of Moriarty's influence that was holding his interest.

He begins to peruse the file, pulling out relevant pages, flicking through, careful not to tear or rearrange the yellowing paper at the back. He's just tapping a request into Google, when a noise outside catches his attention.

He can hear a car pulling up in the street outside. It's not unusual, but as the driver kills the engine, Sherlock's fairly sure the vehicle has stopped directly outside the flat. He moves to the window to look. Frowning, he watches as John clambers from the passenger seat, and although the angle means the driver is obscured, he has a pretty good guess. He was not a man prone to forgetting registration numbers.

Downstairs, the front door opens, followed swiftly by the unmistakable tread of his flatmate on the stairs. Sherlock waits by the window, looking out onto the street. He wonders if John knew how stupid he was being.

The door of the flat opens, and Sherlock acknowledges it with a tiny inclination of his head, not moving his eyes from the street outside. There's a woman walking an Alsatian, the dog forcing her into a much brisker walk than her expression suggested she wanted. Sherlock smiles, and listens to John joining him in the kitchen. He stops a few feet behind him.

"Good day?" he asks. Sherlock hears the apprehension in his voice. Quite right, too.

"Excellent," he replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His lips form a smile. "How was _work_?"

John stumbles over his next words.

"Oh – good. The usual."

"I'm sure."

There's silence. Sherlock can feel the doctor becoming more and more uncomfortable. He chooses to turn from the window, and surveys him, his pale eyes narrowing as they meet John's darker ones.

"Looks like we have visitors," Sherlock comments, indicating the car still sitting outside.

"Oh, that," John says. He seems unable to hold Sherlock's gaze for more than a few seconds. "He just offered me a lift."

"I'm surprised you bumped into each other."

Sherlock watches John close his eyes, swallow, and try and compose himself.

"It's a small world."

The hesitant smile hoisted onto his lips draws a derisive glare from the detective.

"Liar."


	11. Chapter 11

**Not only does this one seem to have taken ages, it's also pretty short, but sticking it on the front of the next chapter would just be silly :) So here it is.**

**Enjoy; and review...if you don't mind :) x**

The word leaves a silence between the two men, only broken by the sound of two sets of footsteps ascending the stairs.

"You should get that," Sherlock says quietly, not moving his pale eyes from where they rested on John's own. The doctor feels guilty under the other man's gaze: there's disappointment laced into the icy grey, and that's unfair – he shouldn't be made to feel guilty for trying to sort Sherlock out.

John makes no response. He doesn't want to break his own gaze, because trivial as it is, it would be admitting that he's wrong in Sherlock's mind – and he isn't.

A soft tap on the door interrupts John's inner justifications, and out of the very corner of his eye he sees Mrs Hudson poking her head round the door, and the shape of DI Lestrade hovering behind her. He shifts from foot to foot as the lady beside him addresses the room.

"Sherlock?" she says, peering around. "There's a gentleman here to see you – oh, sorry."

She backs out of the flat, clearly noticing the staring contest taking place in the kitchen.

Lestrade does no such thing. He thanks her quietly, and proceeds into the lounge, where he takes a seat. Neither the detective nor John acknowledges his presence, although Sherlock's expression sours.

"I'm guessing I don't need to explain the choice to you," John states, digging his hands into his pockets. Sherlock arches one eyebrow, and snorts derisively.

"I don't have any choice," he states calmly. "Other than the choice of when I decide to throw Lestrade out."

"Not an option."

Sherlock shifts his weight onto his right foot, cocking his head sideways into a patronising, slightly unnerving position, still refusing to lift his gaze from John's face.

"Since when did you become responsible for my 'options', John?"

"Since you started being a bloody idiot," John counters evenly. He even manages a smile. "And while I can't force you to do anything, I think the Detective Inspector here has significantly more power."

Both the detective's brows shoot upwards into his hair. John can hear Lestrade shifting in his seat behind them.

"So you came here to threaten me, is that it?"

John considers the accusation.

"If you like."

Sherlock's stare becomes a glare, he folds his thin arms across his chest, and with narrowed eyes, he shifts his gaze from John to Lestrade, and back again. The expression in his face is rather hard to read, and apparently sensing an end to the confrontation in the kitchen, Lestrade joins John in the doorway.

"I sincerely hope you're not playing along with him," Sherlock says, addressing the DI this time, and jerking his head towards John. The doctor's grateful for the sympathetic hand that clasps his shoulder briefly, as Lestrade steps forward to confront the younger man.

"You of all people shouldn't need reminding, Sherlock, that a person suspected of possession of illegal drugs can be arrested, taken into custody, and held for up to 24 hours, longer if sanctioned by a superintendent. After that time, said person can be charged with up to seven years imprisonment, although will also be offered help should possession be linked to a habit." Lestrade pauses in his recital to really look at the detective, and sighs.

John watches his flatmate. Sherlock's expression is bored.

"I didn't need reminding, Inspector," he drawls, "but thankyou anyway for wasting my time by regurgitating such a useless piece of information."

"I don't particularly want to arrest you," Lestrade continues, his voice becoming harder, and more pointed. "But if that is what is needed to help you, I shall not hesitate to do so."

Sherlock stares blankly at him.

"You won't," he states. "You need me too much."

Lestrade is incredibly swift in his reaction: well-practised fingers jamming Sherlock's hands together behind his back, followed by the reassuring click of metal as he secures the handcuffs. The detective's expression is almost surprised, and John wonders if he'd have been able to avoid capture with his usual reflexes. His eyes search for John face, and the hurt and injustice in his expression is certain this time, if still uncalled for.

The doctor says nothing, just draws a hand across his face, and follows Sherlock and Lestrade down the stairs. He's glad Mrs Hudson isn't about; he's not really in the mood to explain.

The atmosphere in the police car is very unpleasant. Sherlock sits in the back, shrinking up against the window, scowling and muttering; hands still secured behind his back. The rebellious, defensive expression across his face is a far cry from his usual self-assured brilliance.

Stopping at a set of traffic lights, it's instantly noticeable how beautiful the evening is. Above the newly flickering streetlights and the London architecture, the sky is a delicate blue, a strip of deep red rippling above the horizon, bleeding copper onto the blue with increasing vindictiveness. As the three men near Scotland Yard, the buildings begin to lose their colour, becoming dark silhouettes against the rust coloured sunset. The beauty seems to be proof of the universe's ironic humour.

The sky reflects in the silver paintwork of the car, turning it pale orange as Sherlock is hoisted out by Lestrade. John watches in silence, shuts the doors of the vehicle, and follows; keeping his pace slow enough so that he lingers behind. He knows there's still justification to his decision, but he dislikes seeing the submissive Sherlock by Lestrade's side.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

John watches his flatmate through the bars of his new door. He sits quite still on the plastic seat at the back of the cell. The door is unlocked, but he doesn't make any attempt to escape as John might have expected. Lestrade's gone to find the paperwork sorting out all the formalities, and on impulse John lets himself into the cell, and joins his friend on the seat.

"Why?" Sherlock asks, not looking at him. John can feel him shivering a bit.

"I told you I'm not watching you destroy yourself," he replies. When Sherlock doesn't respond, he continues. "I reckon seven years in prison would kill you, with your mind. Lestrade will bail you out of here if you let us help you, which I think you'd prefer to seven years with nothing to do. No one's trying to make you go cold turkey, but equally, I can't watch you as an addict."

"Blackmail doesn't suit you," Sherlock tells him, although his eyes stay fixed to the opposite wall.

"Dependence doesn't suit you," John counters, grinning. He glances sideways in time to see the detective's lips tugging irresistibly upwards.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Night has clearly fallen. Not only are the hands on the dial of Sherlock's watch inching slowly towards midnight, but the cell is very quiet, and the only light in it is coming from a flickering florescent tube in the corridor outside. The light is surrounded by tarnished mesh, adding to the feeling of imprisonment.

The frequency of the light is doing nothing for Sherlock's head either, which is really starting to throb now, and has been joined by the slight feeling of fever. Sherlock shivers, and wishes he'd had his coat with him.

However, it's with a sudden smile that he inserts a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, where his phone usually resides. From it, he pulls one small packet of his precious brown powder, and is incredibly grateful that his arrester was Lestrade: given the circumstances, he hadn't thought to search him.

The light isn't good, but Sherlock can tell from the silence that no one's in the vicinity, and he scrabbles in his pockets for some paper, procuring a crumpled piece from the pocket of his trousers. Injection was by far the most effective form of administration, but in the absence of the proper tools…

He lays the packet on the bed momentarily, concentrating first on creating a sharp fold in the paper. That done, he tips a measure of the substance into the fold, making sure not to pour so much as to spill it – he had a possible twenty four hours in this cell. He'd wager Lestrade would cave after sixteen.

He lowers himself onto the bed as he brings the paper level with his face, holding it over the stained bed sheet to avoid waste. Both nostrils twitch in anticipation.

Sherlock blinks, listening one last time for lingering police officers, and hearing none, inhales the powder sharply. He finds himself coughing as it hits the back of his throat, and leans forward eagerly to inspect the paper by the light from outside. Nothing remains, and he presses his lips together in disappointment, and pockets the little scrap of white again.

Then, he seats himself on the very edge of the bed, and waits for the drug to take effect. Inhalation was never as effective as injection, but it would suffice for the present.

Minutes pass in silence, and gradually the detective begins to feel the effects: more a creeping exhilaration than a rush, but good enough to disregard for that moment the children he couldn't save, John's disappointment, and most importantly: the desperate craving that burned in his veins constantly.

He realises he's holding his breath, and lets it out, the sound the only penetrating noise in the entire building.

Listening to the air rushing from his mouth, Sherlock registers something.

Silence.

The place was silent. Not what people usually counted as silence, but real quiet. There was no pacing from police officers on the night shift, no detainees shifting in their own cells, snoring perhaps, heavy breathing, security nodding off. There was nothing. Just engulfing silence that only he broke, as he focussed on the process of breathing, and the rise and fall of his chest.

Breathing was boring, yes, but this cell was dull to the point of being unbearable.

Sherlock strains his ears, getting up to peer between the bars and out into the corridor. There was nothing, just the muted, stuttering light from the tubes secured to the ceiling.

He frowns, runs a hand through his hair; bringing both hands to rest on his hips, thinking. Was it too ridiculous to describe the situation he was in as possessing a 'deathly' silence? He certainly detected no signs of life, and years of collecting information from conversation had left him with fine-tuned hearing, or at least increased sensitivity to the sound waves his ears received.

Sherlock's about to retreat back to sit on the bed, when a definite sound catches his attention. His head snaps round so fast it sends a shooting pain through his neck. He disregards the information as useless immediately, focussing entirely on the sound. The sound of footsteps. The tread was self-assured and confident, the shoes clearly expensive and well-made, probably size ten or eleven, so almost certainly a man.

The one live man in the whole building, excepting himself…


	12. Chapter 12

**Wow, this took ages, but things suddenly got very hectic this week...sorry.**

**Anyway, this is the FINAL CHAPTER. Capitalised, because I'll feel awful having to explain that to people who don't notice the 'complete'. Reviews are very very welcome, and thankyou, genuinely, to everyone who's followed, favourited, just read...I very much appreciate it, and hope the conclusion is to your liking! BMOTR x**

Time ceases to be meaningful. Sherlock leans forwards, pressing himself against the door so that he feels the cool burn of the metal on his cheek. Pale eyes strain in the half-light, trying to see past the white tiling, round that corner at the very end of the passage, where he can hear those footsteps drawing ever nearer.

Judging by the volume of the footsteps, and the likely distance from his line of vision, Sherlock guesses the time that would have to pass in order for him to see this visitor. He listens intently to the ticking of his watch. Although his brain recognises that the movement of the second hand is at its usual pace, he can feel his mind distorting it out of proportion, trying to make him believe the passage of time was greater. This is what ordinary people's brains spent their time doing, and Sherlock is affronted by the relapse of his own, rather more extraordinary one.

The footsteps are undoubtedly becoming louder, the perpetrator covering the last few metres that were still out of Sherlock's vision.

Step. Step.

Expensive soles click on the contrastingly cheap plastic tiles.

Sherlock takes a step back from the door, suddenly and oddly excited. He feels anticipation – and yes, that was hope – run up his arms, send a tremor through him. His eyes don't move, fixed unwaveringly on the chipped white of the wall, around which this man would appear.

It's almost in slow motion that the first foot appears around the corner. Clad in impeccably polished leather, its tread is slow and sure…no doubt for dramatic effect, but still undeniably effective. The detective holds his breath, letting the tip of his tongue dart out, investigating his lower lip, as the corners of his mouth twist upwards.

His eyes move from the foot, to the face of its owner.

Dark brown eyes greet him, widened slightly as the man moves – always an exaggeration of expression, to some extent he was a caricature of a normal person. Or, wearing mask of exaggeration, hiding something else. Moriarty was intriguing, as always. Fascinating, perhaps.

His walk is almost a slope, and yet he somehow manages to inject power and confidence and dignity into it – and Sherlock finds himself fixated. He'd forgotten quite why Moriarty was so captivating.

The man is perfection down to the last polished button. He's immaculate. No human failings. This is what perfection looks like…and why no one should attain such levels of it.

To be so polished, so accurate, so clever: it's never enough. Attributed to a man who didn't suffer from ailments of morality or conscience, he became a contradiction in terms – perfect, and completely wrong.

The idea sends a little thrill through the detective, and for a moment he's unsure entirely what it is: it's not unlike the rush he gets from the drugs…but it's different. It's bad.

Fear.

Sherlock swallows, trying to understand the feeling. He was in no immediate danger…Moriarty appeared unarmed. Neither was he afraid of the man's demeanour, or what he could do. He'd proved once he was more than a match for him.

Unable to identify the source of the fear, the feeling intensifies. It's irrational, the very opposite of how he operates. If he has to feel, he makes sure he has complete control over his emotions, and can justify them. He blinks, and tries to compose himself, drawing his attention from his thoughts, and back to the man a few feet away.

Jim Moriarty draws a bunch of keys from his pocket, his expression morphing into a slow smile as he selects one from the ring, and inserts it into the door of Sherlock's cell. The lock clicks as the key smoothly rotates; and the door swings open, so that the men stand face to face with only the door frame separating them.

Sherlock swallows again. On this second occurrence, he registers that the action is unnecessary, and also the emotions Moriarty would read from it. Infuriated, he stands a little straighter, meticulously drawing up his exterior. There are cracks in it, he can feel them.

Still not a word has passed between him and the man before him. Under Sherlock's gaze, Moriarty takes one more step forward, so that he stands inside the cell with the detective. He lets a grin spread over his face, and Sherlock detects his own feeling of unease increasing.

"Well," Moriarty says, taking the time to flick a careless glance around the four walls. Oddly, the Irish drawl to his tone makes the word sound even more condescending and aggressive, although Sherlock can think of no logical reason why that should be. "This is nice."

His eyes widen in mock amazement.

"Oh, it's quite the lap of luxury," Sherlock counters, injecting sarcasm into every syllable. Moriarty makes no reaction. He digs his hands in his pockets, and allows himself a little smile.

"I wouldn't have thought _John Watson_, of all people, would be the man to put you here," the consulting criminal muses, beginning to pace the width of the room, hands still slung casually in his pockets. "Well, I suppose I _would_, Sherlock…it was rather the point. Turns out I understand him better than you after all."

Sherlock glares across the few feet to the other man, and wishes he had the threat of a weapon, like with their last confrontation.

"Funny," he comments, arching one eyebrow to gaze patronisingly at Moriarty. "Throughout this whole thing, there's been scattered stabs at me: the children, the drugs…all designed to hurt me, I'm sure…but no point. Nothing that would justify the heart clue. You've not burned my heart out, _Moriarty_, you've made several half-hearted attempts, and failed."

Sherlock emphasises the last word, puts as much venom into it as he can muster, intensifies his glare aimed at the other man's face. Moriarty still doesn't so much as flinch. He stands serene and unperturbed, apparently not worried that his great plan had failed. He removes his hands from his pockets to press his fingers together, a mocking parody of Sherlock's own mannerism.

"I've not failed," he tells Sherlock, simply. He turns his head away.

The detective watches him curiously. Part of him desperately wants to know why; whilst the other part – whose voice currently sounded suspiciously like John's – knew it was most sensible to leave well alone.

Well, he generally ignored that part. It was boring.

"How?" he asks.

"Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty drawls lazily. "Could it be that you haven't worked it out yet?"

Sherlock smiles, moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin, a little breathless. What had he missed? Think.

Moriarty begins to walk around him in wandering circles, speaking as he paces, his tone wavering from gleeful to smug, patronising and powerful.

"You see, the thing is…I am burning you. I've been controlling you for months."

"No you haven't," Sherlock corrects him, derisively. He returns to his thoughts, Moriarty's voice becoming a drone in the background.

"I've controlled your life since you saw the death of that first child on the news."

"You have not."

The other man laughs then, a low snicker in the back of his throat. Designed to give the air of knowledge, Sherlock doesn't buy it.

"What was her name again?" the pacing man asks.

"Laura Mitchell."

"Yes," he concurs. "Yes it was. She was sweet. Rather innocent and wonderful, it was a shame she had to go. You can think of it as your doing, if you like."

Sherlock smiles then, moving to lean in the doorway, in effect trapping Moriarty inside. His smile is more a smirk, and the light behind him causes dark shadows to linger on his features. The man opposite him almost scowls, and Sherlock's smirk turns self-satisfied.

"Why would I do that? I was neither the murderer nor the killer's patron."

"You were the motivation," Moriarty hisses through his teeth, leaning forwards to emphasise the point. "Without the motivation, there would be no murder."

Sherlock almost scoffs at that.

"If this is your attempt at 'burning' me, then it is incredibly crude, not to mention ineffective."

The sudden movement that follows startles the detective: Moriarty lunges across the room at him, his fingers finding their way to Sherlock's throat and swinging him round, slamming him against the wall so that lights danced in front of the detective's eyes.

"I don't like to get my hands dirty," he whispers. He's so close Sherlock can feel his heart beating against his own chest, and tries to squirm away, but the other man's hands are surprisingly strong. He can feel Moriarty's breath on his ear, his lips inches from the lobe as he continues. "But I think I might make an exception…my dear."

Choking, Sherlock tries to see straight. He lifts his hands in an attempt to prize the other man's fingers from his neck, his vision is becoming blurred as he tugs desperately, trying to loosen the grip. Grey smoke begins billowing in front of his eyes, obliterating the peeling white walls, obliterating those dark, eerie irises, obliterating the ability to breath. Unable to manage it, Sherlock begins to see its benefits.

The grey begins to turn black, Sherlock's all but lost the ability to even struggle. He feels his body turn limp and slump against the wall, feels and understands how it will now begin ceasing to function. He tries desperately to catalogue the event: if this is dying, he wants to understand it, to know what it feels like…it was hardly an experiment he could repeat tomorrow.

Consciousness slipping away, Sherlock registers a loosening of fingers around his throat. Useless, his body crashes down the wall onto the floor, but he manages to tip his head backwards and force his eyelids open to peer at the man standing over him. Moriarty has completely relinquished his hold. Sherlock peers at him, coughing, and massaging his neck with his hands.

"Go on then," he goads, unable to muster the energy to lift his body from the floor. His voice croaks and breaks from being crushed. "Kill me. I can't stop you."

It takes effort, but he spreads his arms wide, trying to infuriate the man before him.

"Go on," he repeats, his voice gaining volume, although still scraping over the words. "Do it. Or don't you have the stomach to do it yourself?"

Moriarty's lip curls. Sherlock manages a breathless grin, and pushes himself a little further up the wall, so that he is sitting up straight, still panting from the attack. With the light from the corridor framing him, the sockets of Moriarty's eyes are in deep shadow, giving him a skull-like appearance. Sherlock watches him smooth the creases from the front of his suit, and waits.

"It's funny," Moriarty comments, his tone casual and amused. "I really would have expected you to have worked it out by now. Turns out I over-estimated you."

"There's nothing to work out," Sherlock sneers, giving as haughty an expression as possible from where he was still slumped on the floor. "You tried to fulfil your promise to 'burn my heart out', and failed. It was a rather feeble attempt."

The soft laugh at his comment enrages him, and he manages to scramble to his feet, although he still has to lean on the wall behind him for support.

"What?" Sherlock demands.

"Let's talk about John Watson, shall we?"

Sherlock scowls. Moriarty was stalling.

"No. Let's talk about this."

"_No_." Moriarty insists, taking a step towards Sherlock, and staring at him. His face was expressionless. "Let's talk about Dr Watson."

Sherlock folds his arms, and stays stubbornly silent. He taps one foot, and examines the hinge of the door across the room, deliberately ignoring the other man.

"Why?" The consulting detective fashions his voice into a tone that is cold and uninterested. His eyes scan the hinge. Slightly rusted, probably about ten years old. Could be a security risk, but this place was usually heaving with police. Unquestionably dull.

"Perhaps," Moriarty begins, slowly, "perhaps because you seem so unwilling. Perhaps because he's the reason you're here. Perhaps I'm just interested to know if there's truth in all the talk about you boys."

He smirks, and moves to sit down on the bed, crossing one leg over the other primly, and clasping his hands on his lap. Gradually, he leans forwards, so that he looked across at Sherlock with wide, mocking eyes.

"What about him?" the detective snarls, becoming bored of Moriarty's 'games'. This time, it seemed like a provocative front, with nothing of interest behind it. Just an empty, jeering threat.

"Don't you think it's funny that you push the few people you love away mercilessly?"

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat.

"I don't know what you mean," he tells the other man dismissively.

"Yes you do."

When Sherlock once again refuses to answer, Moriarty picks up his irritating monologue, standing as he does so. His voice becomes high and amused.

"All poor John did was try to help you," he points out, jabbing Sherlock accusingly in the chest with one finger, and pacing past. "But you keep rejecting him. Over and over. He can tell when you're lying, you know. Did you ever apologise for what you said about his sister?"

"Shut up," Sherlock tells him. He can feel his jaw tensing.

"And what about Mycroft?" Moriarty asks, a smile forming gradually on his lips. "He's only ever cared about your wellbeing, and you can't even manage a civil conversation with him."

Sherlock stands stock still, paralysed. Something sparks in his chest, a tiny jab of pain. It's odd.

"I've come to the conclusion that you're afraid of your own feelings." Moriarty states. "You couldn't deal with your love for your brother…you pushed him away. You care about John Watson, but you're too afraid to admit it, forget show it. Your solution is to refuse both their efforts to help – just to prove that you were right…and that you really are just a sociopath, after all. _My name is Sherlock Holmes…and I _always_ work alone_. That's right, isn't it?"

Sherlock watches the man throughout his little speech, thinking. His pathetic excuse for a plan begins to emerge, and Sherlock pushes away the scalding pain in his chest to focus on his own amusement towards Moriarty.

"So you're going to try and use John and Mycroft against me," Sherlock announces, bored. He rolls his eyes, and walks to sit down on the white bench. "Original."

"You're half right," Moriarty concedes, heaving a sigh. "Not Mycroft. With his power? Why would I waste an opportunity to gain such an influential ally someday? No. John will be sufficient alone. He's of no real use, so it shan't matter if we break him."

The pain in Sherlock's middle intensifies, licking at his heart with increasing malice. He's not entirely sure why; although when he next speaks, it's through gritted teeth.

"John is not useless."

"He is to me," Moriarty says, a laugh ripping from his throat. "I could find a doctor anywhere, he's hardly unique."

Sherlock laughs too then, because for once Moriarty has got something entirely wrong. He says nothing, just glows in the knowledge of having information the other man was clearly not privy to.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Moriarty stares constantly at Sherlock, his black eyes boring straight through the detective. There's still the tiniest hint of amusement on his lips. The only sound is the ticking of Sherlock's watch, and the steady breathing of the two men, milliseconds out of sync with each other.

_The sound of life, Sherlock. But I can soon fix that._

The detective blinks, closing his eyes slightly longer than was necessary, feeling a fresh wash of that alien fear engulf him at the memory of those words. It was irrational, this fear, and it frightened him further: his life was built on logic and rationalisation, and this was the opposite of everything he craved. Moriarty was not armed. He was safe.

The consulting criminal is the first to move, angling his body so that he faced Sherlock entirely. Sherlock remembers his jibe at John, and clenches his teeth in anticipation.

"I'm getting a little bored of your ignorance, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock makes a derisive sound in his throat, almost a cough.

"I think it would be worse for you if I have to explain it. Step by step."

Sherlock remains mute, his brain searching for the answer desperately. He's met with warm nothingness, contrasting with another sharp twinge within his ribcage. John's face flashes before his eyes. It's a clue, it's his mind trying to show him, but he can't grasp it, not now. The heroin has too tight a hold over his brain, blanking everything of importance out. It's changed from bliss to hell, confused by the obvious contradictions.

"My first idea," Moriarty begins, using the tone of voice usually reserved for difficult reception students – supposedly warm, but with that underlying knowledge in the speaker's voice that their knowledge was superior, and their charge a little irritating. "Was, of course, to kill John. Make you watch, and live with the fact that you couldn't save him. Burn your heart out, so to speak, by obliterating the one man you ever let get inside it."

He smiles, revelling in his brilliance. Sherlock waits. It's all he can do, and he's so angry.

"But then I thought about you. You're so used to masking your emotions that they're mere shadows of proper human feeling, now. You'd just push your grief away, shove it to the furthest reaches of your mind and forget. You'd go back to your first love, your work. You couldn't bear to hurt, and so you wouldn't."

The assessment is cold, and Sherlock shivers. He wonders if it's true.

"I wouldn't want to go to all the effort, and have you push away the burning as if it were dust. I want to hurt you. Prove that you're human."

Sherlock realises he's shaking. He can't stop it and doesn't try. He can't tell why he's so angry yet.

"So _then_ I considered who _could_ hurt. And I instantly thought of our good friend John Watson."

"My," Sherlock corrects him. He hears his voice low and trembling. "_My_ friend."

"And I thought…wouldn't it be so much better, so much more _genius_…if I killed you? Let John Watson hurt over your death. Isn't it brilliant?"

When Sherlock replies, it's a struggle to get the words out. Moriarty's beaming face swims before his eyes, and he clenches his jaw.

"How would that be burning _my _heart out?"

"Because you _know_," Moriarty explains. "I want the very last thing you ever know to be that you hurt him. _You_. After all, he'll always know that he didn't do enough to stop you taking that heroin overdose that night you spent locked up…oh, he should have checked your jacket, he should never have told Lestrade…"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock snarls, but he knows by now. Defeated eyes watch as Moriarty pulls the syringe from his pocket and turns to face him again. They stay on the needle, fixated, and suddenly Sherlock knows what Moriarty means.

This…this is burning.

The other man must have seen Sherlock's face, because he gives a little rueful smile.

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of him," Moriarty assures him. "No harm will befall John Watson, I can promise you."

"Because then he can't escape," Sherlock finishes, horrified. He doesn't bother pointing out that John wouldn't do that, because it's the soldier's strength that's the one comfort to him right now. John would stick it out no matter what.

Sherlock's still burning though, vicious flames gorging on his heart – and he's not sure if 'heart' is a metaphor anymore, it hurts so much it's actual physical pain – licking out the insides until all that's left is a hollow, charred shell, just ashes, resting in the cavity of his chest, black and useless.

Still it burns; the flames content to devour even the nothingness where the heart had been, the guilt, the regrets, everything he hated converging on him, all those feelings he'd scoffed at, deemed unnecessary and deleted.

He knows he should get up and fight: because it's only fair and John would do it for him, but he can't. There's something pressing on his brain, wiping out the ability to move, keeping him paralysed where he sat, betraying the best man he'd ever met.

John was right. About the drugs, about everything.

He had a nasty, irritating habit of doing that: of looking all ordinary and mild, and being precisely the opposite.

Sherlock hears the footsteps, feels the stab in his neck, and the rush of the drug, and disregards it. Not important. John was important.

He feels the expected wave of nausea, and sees his vision deteriorate, the cell dissolve. Not important. He was so sorry. Was that important? It was hard to tell.

He feels the hole in his chest where his heart was. All that was left were the ashes: cold and black, shifting as his lungs stuttered through his last few breaths.

As his eyes slide shut, and he hears footsteps retreating, he remembers something. Something he'd promised himself the day he'd shut Mycroft out.

The reason he should have never let John Watson worm his way into his heart.

When a building burned, its inhabitants burned within.

And all that was ever left over was sodden and broken: a useless pile of ashes, a blemish on a beautiful city.


End file.
